THE, 


J-H-CURLE 


;>  *- 


THE 
SHADOW-SHOW 


BY 

J.  H.  CURLE 


'  For  in  and  out,  above,  about,  below, 
'Tis  nothing  but  a  Magic  Shadoui-Show 
Play'd  in  a  Box,  whose  Candle  is  the  Sun, 
Round  which  we  Phantom  Figures  come  and  go" 

RUBAIYAT 


NEW  xr  YORK 
GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

THIS  world  of  ours  is  the  Shadow-Show.  We 
men  and  women  are  the  silhouettes  on  the  cur- 
tain. Adjusted  to  hidden  wires  by  the  finest 
mechanism,  we  are  seen  to  be  dancing  furiously; 
and  this  we  call  life. 

A  Shadow-Show  indeed !  And  the  sense  of  our 
unreality  at  times  overpowering.  What  are  we? 
Whence  do  we  come1?  What  does  it  all  mean*? 
The  stage  is  fantastic,  and  the  players;  the  only 
real  thing  is  that  mechanism  of  wires  which 
science  calls  the  "reign  of  law." 

"For  man  is  man,  and  master  of  his  fate,"  sings 
the  poet,  and  Smiles,  Lubbock,  and  other  genial 
and  wealthy  persons  chortle  in  the  same  strain. 
But  old  Omar  knew  better,  and  men  of  the  calibre 
of  ^Eschylus  and  Shakespeare  and  Ibsen  have 
always  known;  free-will  is  very  nearly  an  illu- 
sion. 

We  are  puppets.  We  are  the  sum  of  all  dead 
men,  the  sport  of  all  past  happenings.  We  are 
present  links  in  the  endless  chain  of  cause  and 
effect,  and  as  our  structure  is,  so  does  our  life 
inexorably  unfold. 

Given  the  structure  a  a  man  will  rush  into  the 


2135016 


vi  FOREWORD 

world's  arena  and  succeed;  given  /S  some  weak 
link  is  indicated,  and  he  will  fail.  An  atom  the 
more,  and  a  man  will  enter  the  Church,  marry, 
and  breed  an  immense  family;  one  the  less,  and 
he  will  find  himself  in  prison  for  burglary.  A 
Lord  Shaftesbury  and  a  Charles  Peace,  a  Father 
Damien  and  a  Ravachol — in  how  much  do  they 
differ?  In  a  cerebral  convolution  the  eye  cannot 
measure,  in  a  certain  molecular  instability,  so 
inevitable,  were  it  understood,  as  to  chasten  our 
judgments  for  evermore.  "To  understand  all  is 
to  pardon  all,"  said  the  wise  Frenchman,  giving 
voice  to  the  profoundest  of  our  maxims. 

The  reign  of  law  is  inexorable.  The  wires 
that  hold  us  never  break.  Yet  from  that  source 
whence  all  things  flow,  a  source  no  man  knoweth, 
come  to  us  philosophy  and  humour — alleviatives  ; 
they  are  the  anti-friction  grease  for  the  mechan- 
ism, and  I  commend  them  at  all  times  to  your 
use. 

The  stage  setting  of  the  Shadow-Show  is  ex- 
traordinarily beautiful.  A  dawn  on  the  Karroo, 
the  higher  Alps  outlined  by  moon-light,  a  spring 
morning  in  Kashmir,  a  drive  over  the  uplands  of 
Java,  a  bougainvillaea  seen  in  the  Dictator's 
garden  at  Caracas,  are  worth  all  the  pains  of  our 
puppetdom.  A  favoured  one,  I  have  stood  in 
the  wings  nearly  all  my  life,  and  have  seen  the 
mounting  of  a  thousand  tableaux;  I  have,  indeed, 


FOREWORD  vii 

viewed  our  beautiful,  unreal  world  from  end  to 
end. 

Here,  then,  I  present  myself — as  Showman; 
whose  moods  pass,  as  the  shadows  themselves, 
whose  assets  are  travel  and  reflection — knowledge 
of  many  lands  and  many  peoples ;  whose  qualities 
are  a  little  philosophy,  a  little  humour,  some 
tolerance,  a  worship  of  Nature,  and  a  love  of  his 
fellows;  yet,  such  as  these  things  are,  they  came 
to  me  slowly,  apprenticeship  to  the  Shadow-Show 
being  a  life's  work. 

J.  H.  C. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING      ...  13 

II    IN  SOUTH  AFRICA 35 

III  THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD 55 

IV  "LIFE'S  LIQUOR" 74 

V    WOMEN 95 

VI     GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST 113 

VII     THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND    .      .  148 

VIII    WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      .     .  182 

IX    "By  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"      .     .  212 

X    A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA 225 

XI    MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 239 

XII    "THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"      .     .  272 

The  Frontispiece  is  from  a  photograph  by  Lehnert  and  Landrock,  of 
Tunis,  and  is  reproduced  here  by  their  consent. 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

CHAPTER  I 

A    SHOWMAN    IN    THE     MAKING 

I  HAVE  led  a  glorious  life.  Of  all  the  men  I 
have  known,  who  has  been  so  free,  who  has 
revelled  in  this  beautiful  world  as  I?  What 
dawns  I  have  seen!  What  rivers  I  have  sailed 
on,  down  to  what  seas!  I  have  traversed  the 
forests,  the  food  belts,  the  deserts,  the  high 
ranges;  I  have  passed  from  the  tropics  to  the 
arctic,  from  the  tundra  plains  back  to  the  rice 
fields;  I  have  been  to  all  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  look  back  on  a  great  and  splendid  phantas- 
magoria. 

My  thoughts  will  not  be  controlled  to-night, 
and  as  I  write,  on  this  sick-bed  in  Warsaw,  it  is 
the  little  incidents  that  crowd  on  me.  Well !  I 
take  them  as  they  come. 

On  a  Christmas  afternoon,  in  the  country  be- 
hind Manilla,  I  watched  cock-fighting.  In  a  great 
bamboo  structure  some  two  thousand  Filipinos 
and  myself  sat,  lost  to  the  world.  There  were 

13 


14  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

a  hundred  cocks,  the  din  was  hideous,  and  the 
betting  high.  I  have  spent  many  a  worse  Christ- 
mas. 

I  was  in  the  first  motor-car  that  penetrated  the 
sombre  Death  Valley,  on  the  Nevada  boundary 
line.  We  went  to  value  a  "prospect"  in  the 
Funeral  Range  that  I  had  already  named  the 
"Shadow";  but  it  failed  to  satisfy,  and  we  re- 
turned over  the  great  desert. 

Passing  once  through  Chicago,  at  the  height 
of  her  municipal  corruption,  the  posters  of  a 
"French  Ball,"  patronized  by  the  city  fathers, 
took  me.  My  baggage  had  gone  astray;  but  I 
went  to  the  Jews  with  $2.50,  and  presently  ap- 
peared, in  hired  garments,  at  the  ball.  Waiving 
introductions,  I  danced  through  the  programme, 
and  while  the  band  played  the  newly  composed 
"Georgia  Camp  Meeting,"  supped  with  a  noto- 
riously corrupt  alderman  and  two  ladies  of  less 
municipal  status  than  humour,  spending  one  of 
the  nights  of  my  life. 

I  lay  in  the  Connemara  Hotel,  Madras.  It 
was  the  dead  of  a  stifling  night,  and  save  for  my 
waving  punkah  all  was  still.  Sitting  outside  my 
door,  a  wretched,  casteless  creature  pulled  this 
punkah  the  long  night  through,  receiving  for  her 
labour,  and  that  thankfully,  the  sum  of  four- 
pence.  A  woman  did  this !  while  I,  a  strong  man, 
my  vitals  primed  with  boiled  brisket  of  beef,  lay 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING         15 

easy  in  my  bed.  And  as  I  lay  I  reflected  why 
these  things  should  be;  why  one  must  be  up  and 
the  other  down,  yet  in  what — if  we  both  stood 
at  the  Judgment  Seat — in  what  was  I  this  poor 
creature's  real  superior1?  The  hours  passed.  The 
punkah  moved  steadily;  it  was  now  six  o'clock, 
and  the  dawn.  I  rose,  and  taking  from  the  table 
a  tin  of  chocolates,  laid  it  in  her  hands.  She 
tasted  one,  and  began  to  wolf  them  greedily 
down:  "Joy  cometh  in  the  morning"  was  written 
on  her  hideous  physiognomy. 

I  was  breakfasting  in  a  garden.  It  lay  in  Seoul, 
capital  of  Korea,  and  was  enclosed  on  three  sides 
by  the  palace  walls.  My  host  told  me  of  the 
intrigues  of  the  court,  the  struggle  against  the 
domination  of  Japan,  the  murder,  by  Japanese, 
of  the  Empress,  and  the  schemes  of  the  Emperor 
to  be  free.  Pointing  to  the  roof  of  a  small  pavil- 
ion, but  thirty  yards  distant,  he  said:  "The  Em- 
peror stays  in  there,  in  terror  of  his  life.  Three 
nobles,  sworn  to  guard  his  person,  sleep  by  turns 
on  the  threshold.  Thrice  he  has  tried  to  escape 
over  the  wall  and  seek  protection  with  me.  The 
last  time,  late  one  night,  he  nearly  succeeded. 
His  hand  was  on  the  coping,  and  his  royal  outline 
stood  out  clearly.  But  before  he  could  jump,  rude 
Japanese  hands  reached  up,  clutching  him,  and 
with  a  cry  he  fell  backward" 

At  two  o'clock,  one  night  in  the  year  1902, 


16  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

there  was  a  running  of  police  through  the  streets 
of  Lima;  their  whistles  were  blowing,  and  some- 
where beyond  the  plaza  a  bugle  rang  out.  What 
did  the  authorities  fear?  Was  it  those  shrill  cries 
raised  in  the  night?  It  is  true  that  the  sinister 
and  pock-marked  Casceres,  ex-President,  was  back 
that  week  from  Paris;  it  is  true,  moreover,  that 
a  political  rival  from  the  mountains  was  just  then 
threatening  to  march  on  the  capital  But  that 
night,  at  least,  Peru  was  not  in  danger.  A  breath- 
less figure,  lacking  coat  and  hat,  that  stole  within 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  cathedral,  and  later 
reached  Hotel  Maury  unseen,  could,  if  he  would, 
have  thrown  some  light. 

I  was  staying  in  Melbourne,  and  a  request  came 
from  a  leading  paper  to  write  a  critical  article  on 
the  mining  industry  of  Victoria.  "Ah,"  I  thought, 
master  of  my  subject,  "I  will  show  these  colonials 
how  things  are  done!"  I  wrote,  and  sent  it  in. 
It  duly  appeared;  not  my  strong  and  reasoned 
critique,  but  an  emasculated  thing  of  appalling 
flabbiness. 

"Why  have  you  done  this?"  I  asked.  "I  had 
your  word  you  would  alter  nothing." 

"Yes,  we  know;  but  we  didn't  like  to  offend 
advertisers.  But  your  article  is  causing  discus- 
sion; here  are  three  letters  for  you." 

I  opened  them.  Two  were  from  lunatics,  and 
incoherent;  and  the  third,  that  took  an  hour  to 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING         17 

read,  from  a  geological  crank.  It  was  quite  irrele- 
vant, and  left  me  mentally  dazed  and  jaded. 

My  article  fell  utterly  flat,  and  remained  so; 
but  that  it  was  at  least  read  and  pondered  over 
by  three  madmen  I  have  to  this  day  irrefragable 
evidence. 

Here,  again,  is  the  bull-ring  in  the  City  of 
Mexico.  The  procession  has  entered,  the  "Car- 
men" music  has  been  played,  and  Mazzantini, 
.  the  famous  torero,  has  been  acclaimed ;  bulls  lie 
dead,  and  a  dozen  gored  horses  have  been  dragged 
away.  Ten,  it  may  be  twenty,  thousand  people 
crowd  the  tiers,  the  men  sodden  with  pulque,  the 
women  gloating  on  the  flowing  blood  and  longing 
for  a  human  death.  All  are  shouting,  swearing, 
spewing,  and  the  reek  of  gore  and  of  filthy,  bestial, 
gloating  humanity  is  almost  overpowering.  But 
above  the  roofs  utterly  pure  and  lovely  in  the 
southern  sky,  two  snowpeaks  stand  out,  mute,  yet 
insistently  calling  men's  thoughts  to  the  best.  A 
vivid  contrast  this,  if  ever  there  was  contrast. 
Yet  it  was  more;  this  clinching  of  abstractions 
was  the  old  struggle  of  good  with  evil,  of  Ormuzd 
with  Ahriman,  fighting  for  men's  souls  on  the 
sunlit  plains  of  Old  Mexico. 

Who,  having  seen,  has  not  felt  the  glory  of  the 
high  white  mountains'?  Not  alone  of  these  two 
in  Mexico — Popocatapetl,  and  that  other  which 
may  not  be  spelled — but  of  Chimborazo,  seen 


18  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

from  the  coasts  of  Ecuador,  of  Aconcagua,  from 
the  bay  of  Valparaiso,  of  Illimani  and  Sorata, 
rising  from  the  Bolivian  plateau,  of  Kinchin- 
junga,  seen  from  Darjeeling,  of  that  ring  that 
shuts  in  Kashmir,  of  Elburz  and  the  Jungfrau, 
of  Fuji,  seen  from  Lake  Hakone  of  Rainier,  ris- 
ing behind  Tacoma,  and  of  Egmont  in  the  country 
beyond  New  Plymouth. 

But  for  the  mountain  view  most  glorious, 
stand  in  Arequipa's  plaza,  in  Southern  Peru;  the 
peaks  that  rise  up  behind  her  cathedral  are  peer- 
less. 

And  the  beauty  of  falling  water!     It  needs  no 
eclectic  to  choose  for  us  Nature's  masterpiece.    On 
Zambesi  River  you  shall  find  it,  where  the  Vic- 
toria Falls  descend  into  the  mist.     Drenched  by 
spray,  I  stood  in  the  Rain  Forest,  over  against 
the  cataract.    The  waters,  near  a  mile  in  length, 
were  hurled  thundering  into  space,  my  eyes  failing 
to  pierce  the  depths  where  they  descended.     A 
double  rainbow  hovered — hovers  for  ever — above 
the  chasm,  guarding  by  day  as  Pillar  of  Fire  once 
guarded  by  night;  and  in  this  filament  dwell 
'Nkulu  'Nkulu,  Great  Spirit  of  the  Waters,  re 
ceiving    from    strong    white    men — agnostics — 
worship  denied  to  the  hierarchy  of  Jehovah. 

Nature's  second  masterpiece  is  that  view  from 
the  mountains  behind  Rio  Janeiro;  where  earth 
and  sea,  mountains,  lagoons,  primaeval  forests,  a 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        19 

dense  tropic  verdure,  and  a  great  city  lie  spread 
at  one's  feet.  Rio  Janeiro  is  the  haven  of  the 
world.  Not  all  the  others  may  so  much  as  touch 
the  hem  of  her  garment;  not  Stockholm,  entered 
from  the  Baltic,  not  Naples,  not  Sydney,  not 
Stamboul,  nor  Sitka,  nor  Galle,  nor  the  Romsdal ; 
she  stands  alone,  unapproached. 

In  a  wooded  park,  outside  the  walls  of  Peking, 
rise  the  shrines  of  the  Temple  of  Heaven,  purely 
classic,  the  gem  of  all  China.  While  we  still 
lived  in  forests  the  Chinese  had  evolved  the 
highest  order  of  beauty,  and  ever  since  have  dom- 
inated the  Far  East  in  art.  From  the  temple  of 
Confucius  in  Peking,  to  the  least  roof  or  arch  or 
gateway  in  the  Empire,  the  lines  of  Chinese  art 
are  austere,  reserved,  and  yet  the  creations  of  an 
absolute  perception.  Japanese  art  and  beauty  is 
but  a  transplanted  cutting  of  Chinese.  The 
shrines  at  Nikko,  where  the  dead  Shoguns  lie  in 
the  cryptomeria  forest,  are  Chinese  shrines;  the 
small  temples  in  Korea,  in  whose  groves  I  have 
heard  cuckoos  calling  in  the  spring,  are  Chinese 
temples.  Even  as  far  away  as  Siam,  though  bas- 
-ardized  by  an  effeminate  people,  Chinese  artistic 
i-ifluence  is  supreme;  Wat  Prakeo,  the  royal  tem- 
ple of  Bangkok,  is  Chinese  in  every  line. 

Nor  have  I  told  of  Taj  Mahal,  in  its  garden 
by  the  Jumma — that  one  perfect  shrine.  Among 
the  buildings  of  men  there  is  nothing  like  this. 


20  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

The  monuments  of  this  very  India — Mount  Abu, 
Chitoor,  Kutub  Minar,  Madura,  Tanjore,  the 
Mosque  of  Wazir  in  Lahore,  and  the  Shwe  Da- 
gon — these  wonderful  and  romantic  piles,  cannot 
dim  her  glory,  and  if  the  shrine  by  Peking  be 
named  Heaven's  Temple,  the  Taj  is  the  very 
Vestibule  of  Paradise. 

To  some  of  us,  who  have  failed  to  find  God 
among  the  theologians,  Nature  alone  is  left.  In 
Nature  we  find  the  "Permeating  Essence" ;  stand- 
ing before  her  greatest  works,  we  see  God  Him- 
self. I  enter  no  church;  but  I  have  worshipped 
in  the  Rain  Forest,  in  the  hills  behind  Rio,  on 
the  plaza  of  Arequipa,  on  Lake  Lucerne  in  the 
early  days  of  June,  and  in  the  cherry  groves  of 
Japan.  I  have  worshipped  at  Cintra,  by  the 
Temple  of  Heaven,  and  before  the  Taj.  I  wor- 
shipped with  the  people  of  Samarkand  in  the 
mosque  of  Tila-Kar.  They  cried  on  Allah;  my 
prayer  went  to  the  God  who  gave  colour  and  that 
balmy  autumn  air,  who  gave  the  old  Persians  art 
and  me  perception. 

My  parents'  home  lay  at  the  base  of  the  Eildon 
Hills,  in  the  South  of  Scotland.  Thence,  when 
twelve  years  old,  I  was  sent  to  a  preparatory 
school  in  Worcestershire,  a  featureless  youth, 
with  red  hair,  above  the  average  in  sports,  below 
it  in  scholarship,  cutting  no  figure  to  speak  of.  I 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        21 

was  very  fond  of  music,  and  was  invited,  in  my 
second  term,  to  the  supper  of  the  school  choir, 
held  three  times  a  year,  where  the  authorities  had 
set  out  an  extremely  good  repast.  I  joined  the 
choir  next  day. 

The  headmaster,  a  peppery  clergyman,  hit  me 
once  in  a  fit  of  anger,  so  that  I  slipped  and  fell. 
Though  not  hurt,  my  fall  frightened  him;  help- 
ing me  to  rise,  this  contrite,  bearded  person  of 
fifty  kissed  me — but  on  the  whole  my  school 
life  was  not  unhappy. 

An  overcharged  nervous  system  prohibited 
thoughts  of  a  public  school ;  a  generous  father  sent 
me  to  travel  instead,  and  I  started  off  in  1885 
for  Australia. 

The  ship  was  one  of  the  Aberdeen  wool  clip- 
pers, a  sailor,  and  cockleshell  on  the  waters;  after 
we  had  dropped  the  pilot  off  Plymouth,  in  a 
heavy  sea,  I  retired  below,  with  a  foretaste  of  hell, 
and  was  seen  no  more  of  men  for  three  weeks. 

It  was  a  weary  voyage;  for  seventy-five  days 
we  saw  no  land,  and  the  thirty  passengers,  cooped 
physically  and  mentally,  came  to  present  an 
acute  study  in  humanity.  There  was  a  nest  under 
the  bowsprit  where  a  boy  might  retire  with  a  book, 
but  for  sedater  people,  aft,  there  could  be  but 
satiety  and  reaction.  I  had  been  put  under  the 
care  of  a  young  physician,  returning  to  Australia 
to  practice,  whose  passage  my  father  paid.  Be- 


22  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

ginning  on  the  brandy  in  my  flask,  a  disappear- 
ance he  explained  as  "evaporation,"  this  individ- 
ual worked  his  way  steadily  through  the  ship's 
stock  of  liquor.  Later,  in  Sydney,  he  lay  three 
days  unconscious;  but  in  the  end  presented  him- 
self to  his  family,  and  so  passed  out  of  my  life. 

Long  ere  the  voyage  ended  scandal  and  hatred 
were  rife  in  the  saloon,  several  of  the  ladies,  in- 
deed, being  beside  themselves.  Sniffs  of  contempt 
were  heard  at  first,  and  nostrils  curled  in  disdain ; 
one  afternoon  a  hideous  epithet  was  hurled,  on 
another,  a  cup  of  cocoa — these,  as  between  grown 
and  well-nourished  women. 

At  times,  in  spite  of  my  youth,  I  was  drawn 
into  the  orbit  of  intrigue.  I  co-operated  with  a 
young  Irishman  on  the  first  and  only  number  of 
a  ship's  paper.  It  duly  appeared;  but  there  had 
been  a  written  indiscretion:  a  man  was  knocked 
down  on  deck  and  a  drunken  brute  put  under 
arrest.  That  the  indiscretion  was  mine,  the  pen- 
alty my  colleague's,  was  beside  the  mark;  the  cap- 
tain stopped  the  paper.  The  brute,  released, 
vented  himself  on  his  wife,  who  spat  full  in  his 
face,  hissed  the  word  "peacock!"  clutched  to  her 
bosom  a  young  family,  and  retired  precipitately 
to  her  cabin. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  the  voyage  ended,  and 
I  found  myself  in  Australia.  I  was  fourteen.  My 
guardian  lay  in  his  bed  in  the  Sydney  Hotel, 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        23 

while  I  roved  round  the  Chinese  slums  and  sailed 
into  every  cove  in  that  wonderful  harbour.  Then 
I  went  South,  to  relatives  in  Melbourne,  and  from 
there  to  a  big  station  far  up  in  the  "bush."  Mem- 
ory of  this  place  is  vivid.  I  recall  the  park-like 
scenery,  the  immense  gum-trees,  and  the  great 
merino  flocks  in  their  io,ooo-acre  paddocks;  rid- 
ing the  boundaries,  one  discovered  stretches  of 
heath  in  fullest  bloom  and  sheltered  glades  car- 
peted with  maiden-hair;  the  flights  of  brilliant 
parrots  were  ceaseless,  cockatoos  screeched  and 
circled  in  mid-air,  and  in  the  early  mornings  the 
exquisite  notes  of  magpies  were  heard ;  many  was 
the  opossum,  too,  I  dragged  from  its  lair  up  in 
the  gums.  Kangaroos  swarmed  here — consumers 
of  good  grass — and  big  hunts  were  organized.  A 
five-mile  gallop  over  the  rough  after  an  "old  man" 
beats  fox-hunting;  at  bay,  his  back  to  a  tree,  I  have 
seen  a  kangaroo  rip  three  powerful  dogs  to  pieces. 

At  Ballarat  I  went  down  my  first  gold-mine, 
saw  Sheet  Anchor  win  the  Melbourne  Cup,  crossed 
the  straits  and  travelled  in  Tasmania,  and  after 
nine  months  at  the  Antipodes  returned  to  Scot- 
land. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year,  1886,  I  went  alone 
to  South  Africa,  sailing  in  the  "Drummond  Cas- 
tle"— that  doomed  boat  which  in  after-years 
foundered  off  the  French  coast,  carrying  to  the 
bottom  nearly  all  on  board. 


24  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

A  theatrical  company  for  the  Cape  Town 
theatre  travelled  out,  and  on  arrival  there  my 
evenings  were  spent  "behind."  Leaning  over  the 
theatre  bar  one  night  was  an  out-of-work  actor, 
to  whom  I  was  made  known.  His  name  was 
Booth,  brother  of  the  great  American  tragedian, 
and  of  that  other  who  assassinated  Abraham  Lin- 
coln. 

Passengers  for  Natal  transferred  at  Cape  Town 
into  the  "Mel rose."  On  this  steamer  Carey,  the 
Phcenix  Park  murderer  and  informer,  had  recently 
been  shot,  and  the  chief  steward  pointed  with 
pride  to  the  bullet  mark  in  the  woodwork  of  the 
saloon.  His  body  had  been  carried  ashore  and 
buried  at  Port  Elizabeth. 

Durban  was  a  quiet  little  place  in  those  days, 
in  the  grip  of  the  Wesleyan  Methodists.  The 
prosperity  that  came  with  the  Zulu  and  Boer  wars 
had  worn  off,  and  the  excitement  over  gold  dis- 
coveries in  the  Transvaal  had  not  yet  reached 
the  coast.  I  was  staying  with  a  dear  old  relative, 
who,  to  enliven  his  days,  had  undertaken  some 
years  before,  in  the  columns  of  the  local  press, 
a  fierce  religious  controversy  with  Bishop  Colenso. 
The  subject  was  St.  Paul,  against  certain  of 
whose  doctrines  the  old  gentleman  held  strong 
views.  But  the  Bishop  had  died,  and  it  was  only 
at  this  time  a  new  Pauline  champion  had  come 
on  the  scene.  This  was,  of  all  people,  the  chief 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        25 

customs  officer  of  the  port,  an  intimate  friend  of 
my  cousin.  Long  letters  were  being  printed 
daily  from  one  or  the  other,  and  Paul's  prestige 
seemed  to  wax  and  wane  with  each  issue  of  the 
"Advertiser."  Once,  being  discovered  in  the  cus- 
tom house,  I  was  made  to  sit  for  over  an  hour 
behind  some  bales  of  wool,  while  the  virtues  of 
the  seer  were  revealed  to  me  in  about  thirty  pages 
ot  MS. ;  but  with  whom  victory  finally  lay  I  have 
forgotten.  One  night  the  customs  officer  came 
to  play  chess.  Talking  of  the  game,  he  said: 
"When  I  was  in  England  I  several  times  beat  the. 
champion  of  South  Shields."  He  then  proposed 
a  game  with  me.  I  disliked  chess,  was  a  wretched 
player,  was  nervous  and  overawed ;  but  I  sat  down 
and  won  that  game.  Then  I  said,  "Do  you  con- 
firm what  you  mentioned  before,  that  you  have 
several  times  beaten  the  champion  of  South 
Shields'?"  He  said,  "Certainly,"  and  I  knew  my 
chess  career  had  reached  its  zenith.  I  have  never 
played  since. 

In  those  days  the  railway  from  Durban  stopped 
at  Ladysmith,  transport  thence  to  the  interior 
being  by  ox-wagon.  Hundreds  of  wagons  were 
leaving  Ladysmith  with  goods  for  the  lately  found 
Barberton  goldfields,  and  on  one  of  these,  drawn 
by  sixteen  oxen,  I  went  as  passenger,  the  journey 
of  less  than  300  miles  taking  six  weeks.  We 
crossed  the  Biggarsberg,  went  through  Newcastle, 


26  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

skirted  the  lower  slopes  of  Majuba  ("Mountain 
of  Pigeons"),  and  passed  over  Laing's  Nek.  The 
story  of  the  two  battles,  and  all  those  graves  on 
Mount  Prospect,  gave  me  furiously  to  think.  By 
Christmas  Day  we  had  crossed  the  border  and  were 
trekking  over  the  plains  of  the  Transvaal.  At 
Lake  Chrissie  a  wild  herd  of  2,ooo  blesboks  gal- 
loped near  us,  a  sight  later  years  were  never  to  wit- 
ness. 

A  track  was  passed  going  off  to  the  West.  The 
transport  rider  said  it  led  to  a  new  goldfield  called 
Witwatersrand,  but  thought  it  a  poorish  field,  not 
to  be  compared  with  De  Kaap.  The  name  of  the 
Sheba  mine,  near  Barberton,  was  on  all  lips,  and 
when  we  got  to  Komati  River  we  heard  the  shares 
had  risen  to  a  hundred  pounds.  That  same  night 
the  chief  owner  of  the  Sheba  put  up  at  the  road- 
side shanty  by  the  river;  he,  poor  fellow,  was  on 
his  way  back  to  Maritzburg  to  drink  himself  to 
death. 

A  coach  took  me  from  De  Kaap  back  to  Lady- 
smith;  I  had  been  only  two  days  on  the  gold- 
fields,  and  didn't  see  the  famous  Sheba  until  seven 
years  later.  One  day,  on  the  desolate  highveld, 
the  coach  stopped  for  the  midday  meal  at  a 
superior  farm,  by  name  Rolfontein,  and  I  noticed 
there,  out  in  the  wilderness,  a  small  observatory. 
It  belonged  to  the  farmer's  nephew,  John  Ballot, 
a  student  and  abstract  thinker  of  high  order,  des- 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        27 

tined  in  after-years  to  become  one  of  my  dearest 
friends. 

I  bought  a  horse  and  saddle  on  the  market 
square  of  Maritzburg  and  rode  north,  a  week's 
ride,  through  Greytown  and  the  thorn  country 
into  Zululand.  On  the  lonely  Natal  frontier,  by 
the  Tugela  River,  stood  the  ruins  of  the  most 
famous  building  in  South  Africa — the  store  at 
Rorke's  Drift.  Twelve  miles  distant,  over  the 
Zulu  border,  lay  the  battlefield  of  Isandhlwana, 
("The  Little  Hand"),  where  Cetewayo's  impi, 
crescent  shaped,  had  closed  on  our  doomed  men, 
and  again  one  saw  where  British  soldiers  had 
passed  through  the  bitterness  of  death.  On  the 
return  ride,  twenty  miles  out  of  Maritzburg,  my 
horse  began  to  foam  at  the  nostrils,  sure  sign  of 
the  dreaded  South  African  sickness,  and  in  half 
an  hour  lay  dead.  I  buried  him  where  he  lay. 

Returning  to  Scotland  with  nerves  still  awry, 
I  passed  two  ineffective  years,  mainly  at  St.  An- 
drews. Studying  leisurely  at  the  University,  I 
played  golf  and  football  with  young  men  destined 
for  the  Scottish  ministry,  who,  though  amongst 
the  heaviest  of  whisky  drinkers,  were  good  com- 
pany. But  I  was  restless,  and  penetrated  in  those 
days  to  Heligoland,  Copenhagen,  and  as  far  as 
Stockholm. 

Then  I  was  sent  to  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge, 
passing  matriculation,  but  the  authorities  had  to 


28  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

wink  at  a  lack  of  Greek  and  other  stock  subjects 
of  erudition. 

My  knowledge,  if  not  impressive,  was  bizarre. 
For  instance,  in  my  first  year  I  became  a  high, 
perhaps  the  highest,  undergraduate  authority  on 
Paley's  "Evidences."  Even  students  from  other 
colleges  were  led  into  my  rooms  to  study  my 
mural  cryptograms,  for  by  mastery  of  these  any 
one  might  face  with  assurance  the  approaching 
"Little  Go."  I  have  quite  forgotten  Paley.  His 
arguments  were  no  doubt  based  on  unsound  pre- 
mises, but  my  business  at  that  time  was  to  absorb 
his  ideas,  not  to  put  forward  my  own.  I  only  be- 
gan thinking  about  religious  questions  when 
twenty-four. 

In  my  second  year,  having  served  a  term  as 
secretary,  I  was  elected  president  of  the  college 
debating  society ;  yet  I  cannot  debate ;  my  extem- 
pore speeches,  then  and  since,  have  always  been 
rehearsed  in  bed. 

A  college  mission  for  the  East  of  London  was 
mooted  at  this  time,  and  I  was  chosen,  one  of 
three,  to  visit  the  Metropolis  and  interview  a 
certain  suffragan  bishop.  What  happened  about 
the  mission  I  don't  recollect — but  we  had  a  deli- 
cious dinner.  The  Bishop  narrated  how  once  at 
early  celebration,  three  notable  converts — the 
principal  Punch  and  Judy  showman  of  London, 
with  two  associates — took  the  cup.  Again  at  the 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        29 

midday  service,  to  his  amazement,  he  saw  the 
three  lining  up.  "We  thought  we  couldn't  have 
too  much  of  a  good  thing,  my  lord,"  said  the 
leader,  as  he  again  lifted  the  chalice. 

My  rowing  career  at  Trinity  Hall,  the  rowing 
college,  was  a  poor  one.  Weighing  over  thirteen 
stone,  I  was  marked  down  as  an  ideal  "No.  5." 
In  those  days  the  Hall  supplied  a  No.  5  to  the 
'Varsity  boat  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  with  any 
aptitude,  I  had  no  doubt  been  trained  with  this 
high  objective  in  view.  Fortunately,  for  I  dis- 
liked rowing,  a  still  more  bulky  Australian,  with 
a  rowing  pedigree,  showed  such  talent  as  to  bring 
about  my  relegation.  After  much  coaching,  he 
came  to  rival  his  famous  brother  as  an  oar,  and 
did  actually  row  in  the  'Varsity  boat  for  several 
years. 

This  year,  '89,  Trinity  Hall  went  head  of  the 
river,  and  that  winning  night  there  was  a  "bump 
supper"  such  as  Cambridge  will  not  see  again. 
Pleasantly  excited  on  lemonade,  I  was  one  of 
perhaps  five  sober  men  in  that  big  gathering. 
Supper  over,  the  ral lying-point  of  the  evening 
was  a  huge  bonfire  in  the  quadrangle,  fed  with 
chairs,  tables,  curtains,  clothes,  spirits,  and  any- 
thing that  would  burn.  The  demand  for  fuel, 
indeed,  nearly  brought  about  a  tragedy.  Charles, 
assistant  porter  to  the  stately  Thurlow,  was 
caught  and  saturated  with  paraffin;  eager  hands 


30  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

were  dragging  him  to  the  pyre,  when  he  broke 
loose,  and  fled  shrieking  round  the  quadrangle, 
seeking  an  exit.  I  saved  him.  The  wrath  of  the 
pursuers  was  diverted  by  one  who  rushed  to  me, 
crying,  "Come  on;  there  are  Shadrach,  Meshach 
and  Abed-nego  in  the  fiery  furnace,  and  you  know 
who  you  are"  I  turned,  to  see  three  maniacal 
figures  standing  in  the  flames,  horribly  contorting; 
these,  too,  were  saved.  Meanwhile,  extraordinary 
sights  were  to  be  seen  in  ground-floor  rooms.  In 
one  of  these,  all  denuded  for  fuel  as  it  was,  a 
score  of  men  were  fighting,  shouting,  and  drinking, 
while  in  one  corner,  oblivious  of  their  surround- 
ings and  stark  naked,  two  sat  quietly  at  a  piano 
duet.  A  crashing  of  glass  in  the  quadrangle  now 
called  for  notice,  and  it  was  seen  that  every  win- 
dow in  one  of  the  tutor's  rooms  had  gone.  He 
was  a  man  who  was  not  liked;  he  had  a  bitter 
tongue.  It  recked  not  that  his  father  was  to  be- 
come in  after-years  a  President  of  Wesleyan  Con- 
ference, he,  himself,  Principal  of  another  Uni- 
versity and  a  knight  bachelor.  In  vino  veritas. 
So  the  empty  bottles  did  their  work,  and  twice  a 
week,  while  that  term  lasted,  those  windows  suf- 
fered a  like  fate. 

Before  going  to  Cambridge  I  had  decided  on 
mining,  an  unusual  profession  in  those  days,  yet 
one  I  had  seen  the  value  of  in  Australia  and  South 
Africa.  Neither  my  father  nor  I  knew  in  what 
the  education  of  a  mining  engineer  should  con- 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        31 

sist,  nor  of  the  existence  of  a  School  of  Mines. 
The  University  authorities  were  approached  as 
to  a  mining  course,  but  it  was  soon  evident  they 
knew  rather  less  about  mining  than  I  did;  it  was 
outside  their  ken.  It  ended  in  a  scratch  course 
in  geology,  chemistry,  and  hydrostatics;  but  of 
their  practical  bearing  on  mining  I  learned 
nothing,  and  left  the  University  in  complete  ig- 
norance of  the  profession  I  hoped  to  enter. 

While  at  Cambridge  I  improved  my  scholarship 
not  at  all,  but  contact  with  so  many  men  did  me 
good.  I  had  had  the  handling  of  money  for  a 
number  of  years,  and  understood,  as  the  others 
could  not,  the  bald  facts  of  finance.  I  realized 
that,  though  only  one  of  eleven  children,  I  was 
spending  several  hundreds  a  year  of  my  father's 
money,  and  wondered  what  my  own  exertions 
would  ever  represent.  I  knew  the  world,  and 
didn't  squander  money  at  Cambridge;  but  there 
is  inducement  to  do  so,  and  you  will  find  the 
University  man,  as  a  rule,  a  poor  financier. 

More  remembered  by  me  are  the  long  vacations 
of  '89  and  '90,  spent  in  Southern  Germany.  I 
lived  with  two  of  the  kindest  old  ladtes,  in  the 
Neckarstrasse  of  Stuttgart,  and  entered  fully  into 
the  life  of  the  old  town.  In  the  mornings  I 
studied  music  and  the  German  language;  after 
an  early  dinner  I  might  have  been  seen  drinking 
coffee  under  the  Konigsbau,  a  little  later  taking 
tram  for  the  baths  at  Kannstatt,  or  for  a  swim  in 


32  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  Neckar  itself,  and  walking  home  through  the 
park.  Some  evenings  I  went  with  the  ladies, 
who  were  abonniert,  to  an  opera  at  the  Schloss 
Theatre,  or  to  the  concert  in  the  Stadtgarten,  and 
as  often  as  not  played  billiards  in  the  Residenz 
Cafe  with  a  student  of  the  Conservatoire,  now 
a  composer.  When  the  handsome  "Kaiserhof" 
was  opened  as  a  cafe,  we  honoured  the  event  bv, 
playing  billiards  till  seven  in  the  morning,  and 
about  eight-thirty  I  shocked  my  lady  teacher  of 
German  by  falling  asleep. 

On  Sundays,  escorted  by  me,  the  ladies  took 
dinner  at  the  home  of  a  sister,  the  widow  of  a 
famous  piano-maker.  Twice  a  week,  once  by  us, 
once  at  the  house  of  some  other  member  of  the 
circle,  delicacies  were  set  out,  and  six  old  ladies 
and  myself  played  whist  from  four  till  seven.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  the  youngest  was  sixty- 
three,  but  though  unskilled  they  all  played  with 
a  zest.  Playing  pfennig  points,  I  often  won  as 
much  as  a  mark  at  these  sittings,  but  always 
strove,  by  the  assiduous  handing  of  cakes  and  such 
like,  that  this  fact  should  not  rankle. 

The  second  summer,  I  spent  some  time  in  Ba- 
varia, and  Munich  became  to  me,  as  it  has  re- 
mained, one  of  the  cities  of  the  world.  The  mad 
King  was  then  not  long  dead — a  suicide.  Stand- 
ing by  the  Starnberg  Lake,  I  saw  in  my  mind  the 
scene,  and  located,  as  it  were,  the  very  spot  where 
the  faithful  physician,  hastening  to  his  succour, 


A  SHOWMAN  IN  THE  MAKING        33 

had  been  pulled  under.  Poor  King!  and  not  so 
mad  after  all.  Did  he  not  befriend  and  finance 
Richard  Wagner,  when  saner  people  would  have 
none  of  him?  He  had  an  eye  for  beauty,  too. 
Such  palaces  as  Chiemsee,  Linderhof,  and  Neusch- 
wanstein  may  have  drained  the  exchequer,  but 
they  are  beautiful  to  look  on. 

Reaching  the  village  of  Oberammergau,  in  the 
Bavarian  Tyrol,  I  dwelt  at  the  house  of  Caiaphas, 
the  High  Priest.  This  one  year,  in  ten,  the 
villagers  were  performing  their  Passion  Play,  and 
to  my  host  had  been  allotted  this  not  unimportant 
part.  On  a  Sunday,  from  eight  till  four,  in  the 
open  air,  the  scenes  of  the  play  were  unfolded — 
a  reverent  and  a  wonderful  performance.  In  my 
attic  room  in  this  village  lay  a  litter  of  old  papers, 
among  them  many  in  the  hand  of  the  good  Abbe 
Deisenberger,  to  whom,  long  ago,  Oberammergau 
owed  the  inception  of  the  great  idea.  Perchance 
he,  too,  had  slept  under  these  old  eaves. 

I  returned  to  Stuttgart  for  a  while,  to  the  quiet 
life  in  the  Neckarstrasse,  to  the  bathing  and  the 
whist  parties,  but  a  pending  event  was  beginning 
to  excite  me ;  then  came  a  night  in  the  train,  a  day 
and  a  night  in  Niirnberg,  and  I  was  at  Bayreuth. 
Early  that  afternoon  I  stood  outside  the  theatre 
in  the  forest — gift  of  the  mad  King  to  Wagner — 
waiting  in  a  state  of  nervous  exaltation.  At  half- 
past  three  the  trombones  were  blown.  At  four 
the  last  sounds  from  the  great  audience  died 


84.  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

away,  and  as  we  sat  in  the  darkness,  the  first 
notes  of  "Parsifal"  were  heard.  This  was  the 
most  stirring  moment  there  had  yet  been  in  my 
life.  The  prelude  ended.  As  in  a  dream  one  saw 
the  mediseval  forest,  the  passing  on  his  litter  of 
the  stricken  Amfortas,  the  wild  swan  fall,  dying, 
by  the  lake,  the  sacred  feast  in  the  hall  of  the 
knights;  as  in  a  dream  one  passed  through  it  all, 
till  that  final  moment  when  the  voice  of  Titurel 
is  heard  from  his  coffin,  and  the  grail  glows  with 
increasing  lustre.  If  the  mountains  of  Gothic 
Spain  ever  had  a  dweller,  it  was  I,  during  those 
throbbing  hours. 

I  couldn't  really  understand  the  music  of  "Par- 
sifal," but  could  feel  its  depth,  could  see  the  gran- 
deur of  the  story — itself  flowing  from  the 
composer's  brain — and  know  that  here  was  a  work 
of  transcendent  genius.  For  days  scenes  kept 
passing  before  my  eyes;  in  my  ears  sounded  the 
Gral  motiv,  and  those  strange  orchestral  effects. 
The  world  seemed  to  have  opened  out;  "Parsifal" 
was  a  true  climax  to  my  German  period. 

Then  suddenly  the  course  of  things  changed. 
My  father  had  invested  in  Transvaal  mines,  and 
wished  me  there,  to  see  things  for  myself.  A 
milestone  had  been  reached.  Cambridge  and 
Stuttgart  knew  me  no  more,  and  at  short  notice 
I  set  out  again  for  South  Africa. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN    SOUTH    AFRICA 

EARLY  in  1891  I  landed  a  second  time  in  Natal. 
Things  were  stirring  in  South  Africa.  Rhodes, 
the  Colossus,  had  taken  over  the  premiership  of 
the  Cape.  The  Kimberley  diamond  mines  had 
become  one,  in  De  Beers.  The  year  before, 
guided  by  Selous,  the  pioneers  had  entered  Mash- 
onaland,  and  Fort  Salisbury  was  a  town;  tales 
of  rich  mines  up  there  were  coming  through.  And 
there  was  Johannesburg!  That  transport  rider 
on  the  Barberton  road  was  no  prophet;  the  Wit- 
watersrand  had  become  the  most  important  gold- 
field  in  the  world,  a  great  future  was  opening  for 
it,  and  from  Cape  Town  to  Lourengo  Marques  the 
seaports  were  building  competing  lines  to  this 
objective. 

This  was  no  loafer's  atmosphere.  I  made  at 
once  for  the  goldfields,  and  a  few  weeks  later  saw 
me  at  work  on  the  Nigel,  a  mine  lying  by  itself 
on  the  rolling  veld,  thirty  miles  from  Johannes- 
burg, where  I  stayed  a  year,  working  in  mine,  mill, 
and  office,  and  absorbing,  although  slowly,  the 
principles  of  sound  mining. 

35 


36  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

The  Nigel  ore,  at  that  time,  was  the  richest  in 
the  Transvaal.  For  days  together  5-oz.  rock 
would  be  going  through  the  2o-stamp  mill,  and 
amalgam  lay  on  the  copper  plates  like  Devon- 
shire cream.  Once,  after  my  night  shift,  when  the 
mill  manager  had  scraped  the  plates,  he  said, 
"You  could  have  taken  800  oz.  last  night,  and 
I  shouldn't  have  known."1  The  Kaffirs  working 
in  the  mill  were  trusted,  the  plates  being  fully 
exposed,  but  I  don't  think  amalgam  stealing  was 
then  one  of  their  vices;  it  came  later,  of  course. 
I  may  say  now,  to  my  shame,  that  when  on  night 
shift,  and  overcharged  with  cocoa,  I  several  times 
slept  in  the  mill  towards  that  fatal  3.30  a.m.,  and 
woke  to  find  screens  broken  and  chaos  on  the 
plates.  A  man  is  dismissed  for  less  in  these  days. 

The  mine  lay  alone  on  the  veld,  nine  miles 
from  the  small  town  of  Heidelberg.  Visitors 
from  the  Rand  came  now  and  then  to  look  round 
the  district,  but  we  were  an  isolated  little  com- 
munity. We  were  self-contained;  there  was  some 
shooting,  good  tennis,  and  frequent  musical  even- 
ings; we  had  enough  talent,  too,  for  theatricals, 
and  put  an  abridged  version  of  "The  Mikado" 
into  rehearsal,  with  myself  as  the  ruler  of  Japan. 
Just  then,  one  of  the  engine-drivers,  a  valued 
member  of  the  chorus,  got  three  fingers  crushed  to 
pieces,  and  my  friend  Dr.  Nixon  came  from 

1  About  £1,200. 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  37 

Heidelberg  to  operate.  I  assisted.  He  gave 
chloroform,  but  the  man's  heart  was  weak,  and 
he  had  to  be  shaken  back  to  consciousness.  In  a 
drdwsy,  sodden  voice  he  said  to  me,  "Sing  the 
Mikado's  song,"  and  Nixon,  hearing,  took  up  the 
scissors.  Holding  with  both  hands  the  poor 
wretch's  head,  I  sang  out : — 

"A  more  humane  Mikado  never  did  in  Japan  exist," 

and  in  place  of  that  staccato  chord  which  follows, 
the  scissors  snapped,  and  a  finger  fell  off.  There 
was  a  shriek  of  agony,  and  writhing,  and  the  bind- 
ing up  of  the  stump.  Then  I  went  on : 

"To  nobody  second,  I'm  certainly  reckoned  a  true  philanthropist.  " 

Again  comes  that  staccato  chord,  and  again,  in 
perfect  tempo,  a  finger  dropped.  After  more 
shrieks  and  more  sewing  up,  I  sang  on,  and  at  the 
words 

"A  source  of  innocent  merriment," 

the  third  and  last  finger  disappeared.  The  opera- 
tion was  over;  Nixon  had  added  to  his  surgical 
laurels,  while  I  went  out  on  the  veld  and  was 
violently  sick. 

On  the  night  we  played  "The  Mikado"  there 
was  nearly  a  tragedy.  The  house  was  crowded. 
A  variety  entertainment,  forming  the  first  part  of 
the  show,  was  in  progress,  when  some  one  rushed 
into  the  dressing-room  crying  to  us  that  Day's 


38  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

house  was  on  fire.  Day  was  the  Koko  of  the 
evening,  his  wife  the  operatic  pianist.  In  a  mo- 
ment Koko,  pianist,  a  male  Katisha,  several  in 
variety  costume,  and  a  Japanese  chorus,  were  tear- 
ing over  the  veld.  Beside  them,  strangely 
decollete  in  the  moonlight,  rushed  an  immense 
ballet-dancer.  We  were  just  in  time;  the  fire  was 
within  a  foot  of  the  bed  where  two  babies  lay 
asleep.  It  was  soon  put  out.  The  house  was 
slightly  damaged,  whilst  amongst  the  rescue 
party,  I,  in  ballet  costume  aforesaid,  had  burst 
my  stays.  These  repaired,  we  rushed  back  to  the 
hall  and  continued  the  programme  without  a  stop, 
scoring  a  success. 

From  the  Nigel,  a  period  I  look  back  on  as 
one  of  the  happiest,  I  went  to  Johannesburg, 
which  became  my  headquarters  for  the  next  six 
years.  I  worked  at  first  in  the  City  and  Suburban 
and  Ferreira  mines.  Later,  through  friendly  of- 
fices, I  became  director  and  managing  director  of 
several  gold  and  coal  properties,  and  gave  much 
of  my  time  to  their  affairs.  In  these  years  I 
travelled  a  great  deal,  inspecting  and  reporting, 
and  at  one  time  or  another  saw  nearly  every  mine 
in  South  Africa.  Besides  the  Rand,  with  its  forty 
miles  of  mines,  I  got  to  know  what  was  worth 
knowing  of  Heidelberg,  Klerksdorp,  De  Kaap, 
Lydenburg,  the  Low  Country,  and  the  coal  meas- 
ures; and  outside  the  Transvaal  travelled  in 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  39 

Natal,  Zululand,  the  Free  State,  Cape  Colony, 
Bechuanaland,  Matabeleland,  Mashonaland,  Mo- 
zambique, Madagascar,  Reunion,  and  Mauritius. 

It  seems  to  me  no  one  ever  soaked  himself  in 
the  charm  of  South  Africa  as  I  did  in  those  years. 
Perhaps  its  charm  lay  subjectively,  in  me,  for  I 
find  myself  unable  to  analyse  it.  South  Africa 
is  not  a  scenic  country,  but  there  are  beautiful 
spots,  the  grandest  effects  of  sunrise  and  sunset, 
a  clear,  clear  atmosphere,  which  lends  itself  to 
illusion — and  memories.  From  the  very  harbour 
of  Cape  Town,  where  you  first  land,  there  is  a 
view!  At  sunset,  look  over  to  the  Blaauwberg 
Range.  Its  dying  outline,  seen  through  that  at- 
mosphere, is  one  of  the  loveliest  things  in  nature. 
Then  walk  under  the  avenue  of  oak-trees  behind 
Parliament  House,  thinking  of  the  old  Dutch 
days.  Go  out  behind  Table  Mountain,  and  see 
the  oaks  and  the  vineyards  of  Constantia.  Gaze 
through  the  trees  at  Hottentots'  Holland,  and 
again  take  a  long  look  at  the  Blaauwberg.  Every- 
where there  is  charm.  The  very  Karroo  is  trans- 
figured by  the  sunrise.  In  September,  ride  out  to 
the  Boer  farms;  in  that  month  the  green  young 
willow  leaves  and  the  pink  peach  blossoms  are 
seen  together,  and  the  ugly  little  farmhouses  are 
forgotten. 

Then  there  are  the  natives.  My  memories  of 
South  Africa  are  full  of  them.  All  the  races  in- 


40  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

terest  me,  but  the  Zulus  I  love.  They  are  a  race 
of  gentlemen ;  they  are,  physically,  the  aristocrats 
of  humanity. 

Before  my  mind's  eye  passes  a  panorama  of  the 
kloofs  and  dense  bush  of  Natal  and  Zululand. 
I  see  myself  a  boy  again  (Mikwazintlelen,  they 
called  me),  riding  into  a  kraal  to  exchange  col- 
oured beads  for  assegais,  or  bartering  by  the  road- 
side for  a  warrior's  plume  of  the  sakabula.  Then 
I  can  hear,  towards  evening,  Zulus  calling  from 
hill  to  hill,  with  that  long  rest  of  theirs  on  the 
penultimate,  and  a  Kaffir  postman  runs  past,  sing- 
ing, into  the  night.  Once,  as  I  walked  down  Pil- 
grim's Creek,  Swazies  were  on  the  hills  above, 
crying  long  messages  to  each  other.  Their  voices 
reached  me  faintly;  they  seemed  to  mingle  with 
the  notes  of  birds,  then  died  away.  And  once 
there  was  a  Hottentot  shelling  mealies,  who  sat 
in  the  hot  sun  looking  out  over  the  plain.  Why, 
I  know  not,  but  there  was  that  in  the  picture 
which  seemed  to  symbolize  Hottentotdom ;  it  is 
stamped  for  ever  on  my  brain. 

In  1894,  with  my  friend  Henry  Wiltshire,  I 
made  a  memorable  journey  through  the  Eastern 
Transvaal,  the  Low  Country,  and  Delagoa  Bay. 
In  those  days  Lourengo  Marques  was  a  primitive 
place,  with  a  deadly  climate,  and  just  then  it  was 
the  tail  end  of  a  bad  fever  season;  people  had 
been  dying  like  flies,  and  the  overworked  sepul- 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  41 

ture  department  collapsed.  In  the  height  of  the 
fever,  coffins  were  simply  not  to  be  had.  A  "prop- 
erty" coffin,  fitted  with  a  false  bottom,  was  being 
used,  and  the  corpse  dumped  through  into  a  thing 
called  a  grave,  but  rather  less  than  two  feet  deep. 
After  a  heavy  rainstorm,  this  earth  covering  was 
mostly  washed  away,  and  large  patches  of  corpse 
could  be  seen,  calling  aloud  for  re-interment. 

Another  death-trap  was  Komanti  Poort.  From 
this  point  the  Selati  Railway  was  being  built,  to 
so-called  gold-mines  in  the  Murchison  Range.  It 
was  alleged  that  the  Selati  concessionaires  had 
bribed  most  of  Kruger's  Volksraad,  a  trap  and 
horses,  in  individual  cases,  being  mentioned  as 
quid  pro  quo.  The  Poort  was  a  great  game  cen- 
tre. The  rivers  swarmed  with  hippo,  and  the 
bush  with  lions;  travelling  to  railhead,  on  the 
contractor's  engine,  we  saw  tens  of  thousands  of 
koodoo  and  impala.  The  line  itself  was  a  white 
elephant,  and  was  abandoned  some  months  later. 
From  Komanti  Poort  we  went  to  the  De  Kaap 
fields,  already  but  a  shadow  of  the  fields  of  '87, 
and  at  last  I  saw  the  famous  Sheba.  From  Bar- 
berton  we  rode  over  the  Kantoor  and  Spitzkop  to 
Pilgrim's  Rest  and  Lydenburg;  we  walked  all  one 
night  down  the  Ohrigstad  Valley,  swam  the  Croco- 
dile River  unscathed,  and  striking  out  through  the 
Low  Country,  duly  reached  Leysdorp. 

After  inspecting  the  small  mines  of  this  field, 


42  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

we  again  struck  across  country  for  Klein  Letaba. 
Some  days  later,  weary  and  footsore,  we  walked 
into  the  store  at  the  Birthday  mine,  and  sat  down 
to  corned  beef  that  stank  and  weevily  bread  that 
was  uneatable,  and  I  stood  up  and  cursed  the 
little  Jew  proprietor  in  rounded  periods.  Seven 
years  later,  in  Dawson  City,  Klondike,  I  went 
into  a  small  goldsmith's  shanty  to  buy  nuggets, 
and  behind  the  counter  stood  that  little  trader. 
But  my  curse  held;  he  was  not  thriving  in  the 
bleak  North. 

In  1893  I  had  to  do  with  some  mines  at  Klerks- 
dorp,  staying  there  with  my  friend,  E.  J.  Way, 
then  manager  of  the  Eastleigh.  His  house,  lying 
on  a  lonely  stretch  of  veld  near  the  Vaal  River, 
had  been  built  by  an  earlier  manager — the  notori- 
ous Deeming.  This  was  the  man  who  murdered 
his  wives  and  children,  burying  the  bodies  under 
fireplaces,  which  he  cemented  over.  He  was 
caught — I  think  in  Liverpool — extradited  to  Mel- 
bourne, and  there  hanged. 

I  slept  in  the  room  that  was  his.  One  night, 
about  two,  I  awoke  trembling.  Close  by  my  bed, 
in  the  clear  moonlight,  stood  a  shrouded  white 
figure.  I  got  up  and  moved  towards  it ;  but  it  re- 
ceded, and  at  a  spot  by  the  wall  seemed  to  sink 
through  the  floor  and  vanish.  I  went  slowly  to 
the  spot  and  looked  down.  //  was  a  cemented  fire- 
place. Shall  we  say  that  a  stray  moonbeam  woke 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  43 

me,  and  mixed  with  my  unadjusted  faculties'? — 
for  I  am  no  believer  in  the  occult.  The  incident 
is  offered,  without  prejudice,  to  the  Psychical  Re- 
search Society;  the  lonely  house  on  the  veld  is  still 
there,  the  cement  undisturbed  since  Deeming  laid 
it.  At  St.  Moritz,  on  a  Christmas  Day  fifteen 
years  later,  I  told  this.  Among  those  who  lis- 
tened was  one  who  made  entry  in  a  note-book. 
"That  mine  and  house  belong  to  me  now,"  he 
said;  'Til  have  the  cement  up  some  day." 

An  early  financial  venture  of  mine  in  Johannes- 
burg was  the  purchase  of  two  Cape  carts  and  six 
horses,  which  were  leased  to  a  Malay  from  Cape 
Town  for  £12  a  week.  When  I  said  to  one  of 
my  friends,  a  very  wealthy  man,  "I  hope  you 
won't  cut  me  now — I'm  running  two  cabs,"  he 
answered,  "Be  easy,  I  once  owned  a  shooting  gal- 
lery." These  cabs  returned  50  per  cent,  for  the 
first  six  months ;  but  after  that,  wear  and  tear,  and 
the  loss  of  a  horse  or  two,  ran  away  with  most  of 
the  rent.  Then  the  Malay,  seeking  a  state  of  holi- 
ness rare  among  cabbies,  departed  for  Mecca,  and 
died  there,  and  I  sold  out. 

After  days  spent  underground,  or  roaming 
along  the  reef,  I  often  went  to  the  theatre.  A 
frequent  companion  there  was  the  theatrical  writer 
for  the  "Star,"  whose  work  I  did  at  one  time, 
adding  dramatic  critic  to  my  professions  of  gold- 
miner  and  cab-owner. 


44  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

The  best  acting  I  remember  to  have  seen  in 
my  life  I  saw  in  Johannesburg.  That  was  in 
"Forget-me-not,"  played  by  Genevieve  Ward  and 
the  late  W.  H.  Vernon.  I  don't  expect  again  to 
hear  anything  so  fine  as  the  verbal  duel  in  the 
second  act.  And  what  a  scene  that  towards  the 
end!  Stephanie,  the  traitress,  in  terror  of  her 
life,  is  hiding  in  the  hotel  in  Rome,  where  Sir 
Horace  visits  her.  As  they  talk,  the  sound  of  a 
chant  is  borne  in  from  the  street.  Sir  Horace 
watching  her,  says  slowly,  "That  is  the  Miserere 
of  the  barefooted  Carmelites,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
carry  to  the  grave  the  bodies  of  those  found  as- 
sassinated in  the  streets  of  Rome."  Stephanie 
raises  her  ashen  face,  to  see,  looking  in  at  the 
window — the  avenger. 

It  was  melodrama,  but  superb:  when  are  the 
Colonies  to  see  the  like  again*?  Theatrical  ven- 
tures, like  many  other  things  on  the  fields,  were 
largely  in  Jewish  hands.  Especially  was  the 
"Empire"  Jewish,  and  the  performers  therein. 
One  night,  visiting  this  music-hall  with  a  club 
acquaintance,  we  made  friends  after  the  perform- 
ance with  one  of  the  company,  a  young  Jewish 
lady  from  Whitechapel,  and  repaired  to  Mrs. 
Joel's  cafe  for  supper.  Mrs.  Joel,  herself  a  Jew- 
ess, was  reputed  full  aunt  to  Barney  Barnato,  the 
millionaire  speculator,  who,  some  time  before, 
had  jumped  overboard  from  the  "Scot."  For 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  45 

years  the  "Scot"  was  the  crack  boat  on  the  South 
African  run,  but  Barney's  suicide  was  also  her 
deathblow.  From  that  time  no  Jew  travelled  on 
her;  although  so  fine  a  ship  she  fell  upon  financial 
trouble,  was  sold  cheap,  and  now,  under  another 
name,  carries  tourists  from  New  York  to  Ber- 
muda. We  ushered  the  young  woman  into  Mrs. 
Joel's  private  supper-room.  There,  refusing  all 
offers  of  a  more  varied  diet,  this  inferior  artiste 
sat  on  my  friend's  knee  and  ate  pickled  gherkins 
till  the  atmosphere  reeled  round  us.  It  was  the 
apotheosis  of  cucumber.  During  the  eating  she 
entertained  us  with  homely  facts  of  her  life,  en- 
tering with  some  detail  into  her  stomachic  troubles. 
When  we  could,  we  fled,  but  since  that  night  my 
supper  guests  have  been  chosen  with  more  dis- 
crimination. 

At  one  time  there  was  a  talk  of  a  new  morning 
paper  for  the  Rand,  and  I  was  asked  to  suggest 
a  name.  I  said,  "Call  it  the  'Main  Reef 
Leader' J>1  (subdued  laughter) ;  then  added, 
"And  let  its  aim  be  sound  mining  rather  than  un- 
sound politics."  Though  the  scheme  fell  through 
I  was  dead  right  about  the  policy.  The  Rand's 
business  was  mining,  not  politics.  The  mines  were 
run  extravagantly.  To  put  these  on  an  economic 
basis,  and  to  do  their  duty  by  the  shareholders, 
was  quite  enough  work  for  those  in  control.  In- 

*The  name  of  one  of  the  gold  reefs. 


46  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

stead  of  doing  this,  those  people  put  their  brains 
and  energy  into  abortive  political  agitation;  and 
mining  reforms,  which  should  have  been  initiated 
between  1893  and  1897,  were  actually  not  put  in 
force  till  ten  years  later. 

The  Rand  capitalists  ought  to  have  let  politics 
alone.  If  they  felt  they  had  grievances,  there 
was  a  man  like  the  late  W.  Y.  Campbell,  a  big 
red-bearded  Scotsman,  the  best  the  Rand  ever 
knew,  to  whom  their  case  might  have  been 
handed.  In  his  fingers  the  threads  of  Uitlander 
agitation  should  have  centred.  Some  well- 
equipped  mediator  of  this  sort  might  have  done 
something  with  the  Pretoria  Government;  the 
course  adopted,  that  of  browbeating,  was  certain 
of  failure.  But  the  capitalists  had  no  grievances. 
The  mining  law  of  the  Transvaal  favoured  them 
more  than  did  that  of  any  English  Colony,  there 
was  no  direct  taxation,  three  railways  were  built 
to  Johannesburg  from  the  coast;  finally,  from 
1894  onwards,  the  public  in  Europe  bought  scrip 
almost  as  fast  as  it  could  be  printed.  The 
capitalists  wallowed  in  money.  Nor  had  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  Uitlanders  grievances.  There  was 
employment  for  all  who  would  work.  Salaries 
were  enormous;  white  miners  got  over-£l  a  day, 
for  a  poor  day's  work,  and  all  other  pay  was  in 
proportion. 

We  were  told  in  the  columns  of  the  capitalist 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  47 

press,  or  by  speakers  from  the  platforms  of  the 
National  Union,  that  the  Boer  Government  was 
corrupt,  that  Kruger  had  gone  back  on  his 
promise  to  give  us  the  franchise,  that  the  sight 
of  thousands  of  Britons  without  a  vote  was  de- 
grading. All  true,  no  doubt.  But  what  really 
concerned  those  thousands  of  Britons,  at  that  time, 
was  the  state  of  the  share  market ;  so  long  as  that 
was  booming,  their  political  aspirations  were 
dead.  What  on  earth  did  I,  for  example,  want 
with  a  vote1?  My  only  direct  tax  was  a  poll  tax 
of  £1  a  year.  I  was  earning  good  money,  supple- 
mented by  occasional  share  deals.  I  was  perfectly 
content.  What  if  the  Boer  Government  was 
corrupt?  Did  I  not  see  corruption  in  Johannes- 
burg, among  people  who  declared  themselves  more 
civilized  than  the  Boers'?  And  as  to  a  vote — 
well,  if  that  entailed  taking  the  oath  of  allegiance 
to  the  Transvaal,  ceasing  to  be  a  British  subject, 
I  saw  no  possible  reason  for  such  step. 

That  insoluble  question  of  the  suzerainty  was 
the  root  of  the  trouble.  People  argued,  Britain 
being  suzerain  over  the  Transvaal,  that  British 
subjects  were  entitled  to  the  Transvaal  franchise, 
while  retaining  full  British  status.  On  the  other 
hand,  President  Kruger,  I  think  with  better  rea- 
son, argued:  "If  these  people,  who  in  a  year  or 
two  will  outnumber  us,  are  to  have  the  vote,  and 
if  they  remain  British  in  sentiment,  their  first 


48  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

action  will  be  to  vote  the  Transvaal  into  a  British 
Colony.  This  doesn't  strike  me  as  likely  to  benefit 
us  Boers;  I  shall  keep  them  from  voting  as  long  as 
I  have  the  power." 

It  was  no  use  appealing  to  the  wording  of  the 
document  which  defined  the  suzerainty.  This  was 
vague,  and  had  made  no  provision  for  so  unfore- 
seen a  position.  Each  side  could  only  put  its  own' 
interpretation,  but,  as  I  have  said,  I  thought  the 
President's  the  more  logical. 

"Briton  or  Boer!"  When  I  first  went  to  the 
Transvaal,  racial  feeling  was  dying  out.  For 
ends  that  were  mainly  selfish,  the  capitalists  re- 
vived it,  and  their  newspapers  fed  the  flames  for 
years.  Jameson  completed  the  schism — although, 
be  it  remembered,  against  the  instructions  of  the 
Rand  leaders — when  he  crossed  the  border  with 
his  police.  After  the  Raid,  war  was  probably  un- 
avoidable; to  that  extent  I  absolve  the  British 
party.  But  the  beginning  of  the  agitation  (ex- 
cepting that  of  a  few  enthusiasts  of  the  Fitzpat- 
rick  type)  was  discreditable  to  us. 

I  had  no  great  respect  for  Paul  Kruger.  Some 
of  his  acts  didn't  seem  to  square  with  his  pro- 
fessions of  religion,  which,  outwardly,  were  very 
marked.  I  had  to  see  him  once,  arriving  at  his 
house,  by  appointment,  at  5.30  in  the  morning, 
while  it  was  yet  dark.  Passing  two  policemen 
on  the  stoep,  I  entered  the  sitting-room,  and  found 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  49 

the  family  at  devotions.  Some  one  was  playing  a 
harmonium,  and  heavy,  tuneless  voices  were  dron- 
ing out  a  psalm.  We  knelt,  while  the  President 
read  long  prayers;  after  which  the  little  servant 
girl  handed  round  coffee,  and  the  work  of  the  day 
commenced. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  Kruger  was  in- 
sincere ;  it  is  rather  an  expression  of  opinion.  His 
government,  and  many  of  his  agents  were  cor- 
rupt; but  the  man  is  dead,  and  I  would  rather 
think  well  of  him.  He  was  a  great  man  and  a 
true  patriot.  \ 

I  first  saw  Cecil  Rhodes  in  1894.  He  rarely 
came  to  the  Transvaal.  One  night,  however,  he 
dined  at  the  Rand  Club,  and  for  half  an  hour  I 
never  took  my  eyes  off  his  face,  repeating  to  my- 
self, over  and  over  again:  "That's  the  profile  of 
Julius  Csesar."  He  had  a  face  of  extraordinary 
power,  and  the  immense  nose  so  often  found  in 
men  of  that  type. 

Some  years  later,  before  leaving  London  to 
report  on  Rhodesia  for  a  small  syndicate  of  which 
he  was  a  member,  I  called  on  Rhodes  at  the  Bur- 
lington Hotel.  A  big  map  of  Africa  lay  on  the, 
table;  as  he  discussed  some  of  his  schemes,  he 
ruled  it  off  in  pencil  lines,  casually,  as  one  of 
lesser  calibre  laying  out  a  garden. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  Groot  Schuur, 
a  few  weeks  before  the  war.  I  remembered  him 


50  tTHE  SHADOW-SHOW 

saying,  in  that  falsetto  he  rose  to  when  excited, 
"Oom  Paul  won't  fight.  He'll  back  down." 
After  lunch  we  sat  outside  and  listened  to  the 
band  of  some  up-country  mission  station,  come 
to  earn  his  approval;  but  I  doubt  if  he  knew  one 
note  from  another.  Even  after  death  the  Colus- 
sus  was  not  to  follow  in  the  ways  of  lesser  men. 
As  the  train,  bearing  his  remains,  rushed  north 
to  the  Matoppo  Hills,  the  shell  burst  open.  His 
great  spirit  was  passing  uneasily  to  its  rest. 

During  these  years,  drawn  there  as  by  a  mag- 
net, I  often  found  myself  back  in  Natal,  where, 
for  the  time  being,  the  more  strenuous  life  of  the 
Transvaal  was  forgotten. 

Natal  is  a  country  with  a  small  white  popula- 
tion of  farmers,  while  for  every  white  there  are 
ten  natives,  of  Zulu  extraction.  In  the  Zulu  War 
of  1879  these  natives  mostly  remained  loyal,  and 
in  the  old  days  many  were  glad  to  place  their 
kraals  on  the  farms  and  to  work  for  about  8s.  a 
month.  The  children  often  became  house  ser- 
vants, and  between  the  natives  and  the  whites,  all 
of  whom  spoke  Zulu  fluently,  was  much  good 
feeling.  In  more  recent  years,  owing  to  the  Trans- 
vaal's demand  for  labour,  wages  have  risen  to 
three  or  four  times  the  old  figure,  while  the  qual- 
ity of  service  is  not  what  it  was.  Many  of  the 
younger  men  come  back  dissatisfied  from  the 
Rand,  where  they  have  received  big  wages,  ac- 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  51 

quired  dissolute  habits,  and  learned  to  think  and 
speak  disrespectfully  of  the  whites.  More  and 
more,  too,  the  natives  are  coming  in  contact  with 
the  mission  stations.  A  mission-station  Kaffir  is 
no  use  to  any  one,  for  he  has  acquired  the  vices 
of  the  white  man  without  his  virtues.  In  return 
for  a  smattering  of  education  and  Christianity,  he 
is  liable  to  become  conceited,  insolent,  and  se- 
cretly disloyal.  He  has  learned  that  all  men  are 
equal  in  the  sight  of  God,  without  the  useful 
corollary  that  they  are  not  equal  in  the  sight  of 
men  and  that  the  world  conforms  to  the  lat- 
ter usage.  Missionaries,  both  white  and  black, 
liquor-sellers,  and  all  men  who  lower  in  the  native 
mind  the  respect  due  to  the  dominant  race,  may 
be  laying  up  for  us  a  future  store  of  trouble  in 
Africa. 

Natal  is  a  fertile  country,  with  a  beautiful 
climate,  yet  there  are  great  drawbacks  to  agri- 
culture. Droughts  or  locusts  can  ruin  a  crop, 
and  animals  are  susceptible  to  strange  diseases. 
I  have  seen  my  friends  lose  their  horses,  cattle, 
and  poultry  more  than  once.  But  the  balance 
remains  on  the  right  side.  Life  is  easy  there,  the 
farmer's  condition  is  comfortable,  if  not  affluent, 
and  the  colonists  get  more  pleasure  out  of  life 
than  most;  a  Natal  country  tennis  party  in  the 
old  days,  followed  by  supper  and  a  dance,  con- 


52  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

tinued  often  for  a  second  day,  was  as  good  amuse- 
ment as  I  remember. 

Passing  to  and  fro  through  Pietermaritzburg, 

1  used  to  put  up  at  the  Horse  Shoe  Hotel,  where 
there  was  a  first-rate  billiard-room.     One  day, 
noticing  a  new  marker,  I  asked  him  to  play,  and 
he  flattened  me  out  badly.     I  said,  "You  play  a 
fairish  game.     What's  your  name1?"     "It's  Stev- 
enson."    Since  then  he  has  stood  in  the  great 
Roberts's  shoes  as  world's  champion  of  English 
billiards.    Talking  of  Roberts,  he  one  night  gave 
an  exhibition  at  the  Rand  Club,  and  when  it  was 
over,  stayed  on  with  me  alone  talking.     About 

2  a.m.,  Roberts  said,  "I'll  show  you  a  shot  no 
one  else  in  the  world  can  do."     It  was  a  cannon 
off  either  nine  or  eleven  cushions,  and  required 
a  terrific  hit.     He  did  it.     Then  I  took  the  cue, 
gave  a  tremendous  smash,  and — achieved !     I  put 
my  hand  familiarly  on  his  shoulder,  saying,  "Rob- 
erts, you  and  I  are  the  only  people  in  the  world 
who  can  do  that  shot."     It  broke  him  up  alto- 
gether.    I  don't  know  if  he  wept,  but  I  must 
have  helped  him  to  his  cab.    John  Roberts  in  his 
prime  was  wonderful;  his  stately  presence  and 
finely  fitting  clothes,  added  to  his  iron  nerve,  and 
his  then  unique  knowledge  of  billiards,   was  a 
combination  worth  going  far  to  see. 

Natal  is  a  country  neither  rich  nor  important, 
but  has  for  me  an  extraordinary  charm.    A  win- 


IN  SOUTH  AFRICA  53 

ter  evening  on  the  uplands,  the  sun  low  on  the 
horizon,  a  slight  chill  in  the  air,  as  of  the  coming 
night,  a  patch  of  rich  bush  not  far  distant,  a  native 
kraal,  from  which  the  smoke  rises  lazily,  a  Kaffir 
maiden  perched  high  above  the  mabele  to  frighten 
birds  from  the  ripening  grain,  and,  borne  on  the 
clear  air,  the  plaintive  song  of  the  natives  bring- 
ing home  their  cattle — such  a  picture  is  among  my 
treasured  memories. 

In  the  heart  of  Natal,  just  off  the  Grey  town 
road,  there  is  an  old  farmhouse,  where  at  different 
times  have  been  spent  the  happiest  days  of  my 
life.  The  giant  gum-trees  which  surround  it  were 
planted  more  than  fifty  years  ago  by  one  of  the 
earliest  colonists.  This  charming  old  man,  Dr. 
Charles  Bird  Boast,  was  the  first  of  my  friends  to 
die.  .  In  dying  he  faced,  as  a  thinker,  a  deep, 
unknown  sea,  yet  when  he  knew,  as  a  physician, 
that  his  hour  was  come,  he  called  his  family  round 
his  bed  and  passed  out  conscious  and  smiling,  and 
I  was  proud  of  my  old  friend's  manner  of  death. 
He  went  in  1897;  but  the  little  brook  still  mur- 
murs under  the  gum-trees  and  the  doves  are  coo- 
ing in  the  branches.  When  the  longing  for  Africa 
comes  on  me  I  leave  the  utmost  ends  of  the  earth 
for  that  old  farmhouse  on  the  Grey  town  road. 

Towards  the  end  of  1894,  when  I  reached  the 
Rand  from  the  Low  Country,  the  great  "boom" 
was  just  beginning.  It  lasted  a  year,  and  has 


54  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

become  historic.  Before  its  height,  on  a  realized 
profit  of  modest  dimensions,  I  visited  Europe. 
How  well  I  remember,  typifying  this  boom  year, 
that  big  crowd  on  the  steps  of  the  Paris  Bourse. 
Above  the  roar,  stentorian  voices  shouted,  "Mos- 
samedes !  Mossamedes,  a  soixante  quinze !"  Here 
were  shares  of  a  district  a  thousand  miles  from 
the  Rand,  where  no  gold  existed,  and  I  knew  then 
that  the  French  investor  was  doomed.  If  he,  why 
not  others'?  That  night,  I  wrote  to  a  friend  on 
the  Rand,  "Sell  everything  you  hold.  The  world 
is  gone  mad."  When  my  letter  arrived,  he  told 
me  afterwards,  he  could  have  turned  the  scale  at 
£60,000.  He  hesitated,  and  was  lost.  Next  year 
he  cleared  out  with  only  £17,000. 

When  I  got  back,  in  October,  '95,  the  "boom" 
was  breaking.  Johannesburg  was  still  rolling  in 
money,  and  people  were  intoxicated  with  success; 
but  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  uneasiness  about, 
and  the  share  market  was  nervous.  Clearly  some- 
thing was  in  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD 

ON  an  evening  in  early  December,  I  sat  at 
dinner  in  the  Rand  Club.  I  was  alone,  at  my 
favourite  corner  table;  sipping  a  chocolate  ice,  I 
mused  pleasantly  over  my  affairs. 

One  of  my  friends  came  in  and  sat  by  me.  He 
said,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,  and  you 
must  swear  to  keep  it  secret." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

"Well,  there's  going  to  be  a  revolution  in  a 
few  weeks.  I  don't  know  all  the  details;  but  it's 
to  get  us  the  franchise.  Rhodes  is  behind  it,  and 
Jameson  will  come  in  with  the  Chartered  police 
to  put  it  down.  But  the  first  thing  is  to  capture 
the  arsenal  at  Pretoria.  They're  getting  five  hun- 
dred picked  men  to  volunteer  for  this;  I've  joined, 
and  they  asked  me  to  get  you.  Of  course,  it'll  be 
dangerous  work." 

I  seemed  to  swallow  something.  I  heard  my 
voice  saying,  "Oh  yes,  I'll  join,"  and  I  ordered 
another  ice.  Promising  to  give  details  as  they 
came  to  him,  my  friend  went  off. 

I  sat  on  quietly.  But  how  hot  it  was !  .  .  .  To 
55 


56  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

take  the  arsenal !  Why,  the  place  simply  bristled 
— Of  course,  if  II  be  dangerous  -work!  In  a  flash 
I  realized  that  I  wanted  no  vote,  that  it  was 
shameful  to  rob  the  Boers  of  their  country. 

But  there  I  was — pledged.  One  of  five  hun- 
dred picked  men !  Passionate  lover  of  peace  as  I 
then  knew  myself,  I  could  do  nothing.  Then  I 
thought  of  my  shares  that  were  being  carried  on 
the  London  market.  I  went  back  to  my  rooms 
and  put  my  selling  orders  into  code. 

For  the  last  few  years  of  his  life  Cecil  Rhodes 
was  the  biggest  man  in  the  world,  as  I  believe 
Porfirio  Diaz  of  Mexico  to  have  been  for  some 
years  after  Rhodes's  death.  He  had  not  the  great- 
est intellect;  but  a  strong  brain,  a  fixed  purpose, 
a  gigantic  personality,  unrivalled  achievement, 
and  immense  prestige  set  him  on  the  pinnacle. 
He  was  Premier  of  the  Cape,  Life  Governor  of 
De  Beers,  and  Dictator  of  Rhodesia — a  great 
stretch  of  territory  he  had  added  to  the  Empire. 
He  was  a  millionaire  by  his  holdings  in  the  dia- 
mond and  gold  mines.  In  the  latter  his  power 
was  not  openly  exercised;  but,  from  the  capital- 
ists downward,  he  was  looked  up  to  by  all  as  the 
leader.  He  was  the  uncrowned  king  of  South 
Africa. 

Rhodes's  greatest  scheme,  unification  of  South 
Africa  under  the  British  flag,  still  remained  to 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  57 

accomplish.  But  he  suffered  from  a  weak  heart; 
he  knew  his  years  were  numbered,  and  tried  to 
force  things  which  could  not  be  forced. 

As  a  lever  in  his  scheme,  he  seized  on  the 
political  agitation  in  the  Transvaal.  The  large 
English  community  there  was  demanding  the 
franchise.  But  as  these  people  promised  soon  to 
outnumber  the  Boers,  and  made  no  secret  of  their 
British  sympathies,  and  as  the  wording  of  the 
suzerainty  document  was  vague,  one  can  at  least 
understand  President  Kruger's  action  in  refus- 
ing it. 

Towards  the  end  of  1895  the  Uitlander  leaders 
planned  a  revolution.  They  worked  in  collusion 
with  Rhodes;  his  brother  joined  their  inner  com- 
mittee, his  money  and  influence  were  behind 
them. 

The  scheme  as  outlined  was  this:  On  a  given 
day  five  hundred  picked  men  would  seize  the 
arsenal  at  Pretoria,  capture  the  President  and 
his  advisers,  and  paralyse  the  Government.  Si- 
multaneously the  English  along  the  Rand  would 
rise  and  proclaim  a  revolution.  The  Adminis- 
trator of  Rhodesia,  Dr.  Jameson,  would  be  sta- 
tioned on  the  frontier  with  the  Chartered  com- 
pany's regiment  of  police,  and  being  appealed  to 
by  the  Uitlanders,  would  come  in  to  establish 
law  and  order.  A  formal  letter  was  drafted  and 


58  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

sent  him,  and  it  remained  only  to  fix  the  day. 
No  one  seemed  to  anticipate  failure. 

Beyond  this  stage  the  plans  of  the  inner  circle 
were  not  clear.  Some  were  for  annexing  the 
country  to  the  Empire,  others  declared  in  favour 
of  retaining  the  Republic  and  its  flag.  There 
was  a  deadlock.  On  Christmas  morning,  as  I 
went  into  the  club,  Charles  Leonard  and  F.  H. 
Hamilton  came  out  and  drove  to  Park  Station. 
They  were  leaving  for  Cape  Town,  to  lay  the 
flag  question  before  Rhodes. 

That  some  member,  or  members,  of  the  British 
Government  knew  unofficially  of  the  plot,  I  be- 
lieve; but  that  Rhodes  told  the  High  Commis- 
sioner what  was  going  on  is  unlikely — if  he  did, 
he  garbled  the  facts.  It  is  also  doubtful  if 
Rhodes  was  sincere  toward  the  inner  circle.  It 
is  said  that  he  assured  them  the  British  Govern- 
ment knew,  and  would  act  in  sympathy  when 
the  time  came.  Either  Rhodes  lied,  or  they,  as 
we  were  told  the  High  Commissioner  would  at 
once  come  up  and  recognize  the  revolution,  and 
a  member  of  the  inner  circle  swore  to  me  that, 
so  far  as  he  knew,  the  British  Government  was 
going  to  help  us.  As  to  the  ethics  of  such  action 
on  England's  part,  or  its  inherent  probability,  we 
didn't  bother  our  heads.  Rhodes  was  all-power- 
ful; if  he  said  the  thing  would  be,  it  would  be. 

To  me  it  mattered  not  who  was,  or  was  not, 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  59 

behind  the  plot.  A  small  pawn  in  the  game,  I 
was  in  because  my  club  friends  were  in.  I  had 
no  politics.  I  wanted  no  franchise.  I  failed  to 
see  why  any  Britisher  did.  What  really  worried 
me  was  the  taking  of  that  arsenal ! 

As  December  waned,  the  excitement  in  Johan- 
nesburg became  intense.  We  knew  Jameson  and 
his  police  were  waiting,  encamped  on  the  border, 
and  we  expected  hourly  to  hear  that  the  day  had 
been  fixed.  But  the  Boers  were  getting  suspicious. 
Too  many  people  were  in  the  secret.  The  Presi- 
dent got  to  know  something;  in  a  speech  at  Mid- 
delburg  he  compared  the  Uitlander  agitation  with 
the  tortoise — which  is  only  scotched  when  it  puts 
out  its  head. 

The  next  we  heard  was  that,  Pretoria  being  on 
the  alert,  it  had  been  decided  to  drop  the  attempt 
on  the  arsenal,  and  some  of  us  took  the  disap- 
pointment wonderfully  well.  Then,  at  Christ- 
mas, the  trouble  over  the  flag  question  leaked 
out. 

Immediately  the  discovery  followed  that 
enough  guns  and  ammunition  could  not  be  got 
through  in  time.  This  altered  everything,  and 
the  rising  was  postponed  for  three  weeks;  but 
that  there  had  been  postponement  was  known 
only  to  the  leaders. 

The  guns  were  coming  through  from  Kimber- 
ley,  hidden  in  trucks  of  coke.  Only  2,300  Lee- 


60  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Metfords,  three  Maxims,  and  a  small  quantity  of 
ammunition  had  arrived,  and  that  was  all  that 
ever  got  in. 

And  then,  just  at  the  end  of  the  year,  as  tension 
was  relaxing,  a  rumour  spread  like  wild-fire. 
Jameson  had  crossed  the  border !  He  had  cut  the 
wires;  he  had  taken  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  was 
galloping  to  the  Rand ! 

When  postponement  was  decided  on,  three 
messengers  were  sent  to  Jameson  post-haste.  One 
went  round  by  De  Aar,  another  rode  direct  to 
Maf eking,  and  the  third  by  a  route  I  have  for- 
gotten— possibly  through  Lichtenburg.  One,  at 
least,  of  these  reached  him,  to  receive  in  reply  the 
words,  "They  may  send  me  fifty  messen- 
gers, but  I'm  coming." 

In  those  days,  with  a  little  luck,  I  might  have 
perhaps  changed  the  face  of  history.  A  week 
before  Jameson  started,  there  went  to  Mafeking 
at  my  expense  an  ex-officer  of  the  British  Army, 
with  instructions  to  report  on  the  position.  He 
carried  a  private  code,  dealing  ostensibly  with 
mining  affairs.  Duly  reaching  Mafeking,  he  rode 
out  to  Jameson's  camp  at  Pitsani,  spent  the  whole 
of  that  Sunday  there,  and  returned  to  Mafeking 
at  sundown. 

But  where  was  his  prescience?  Where  his  mili- 
tary instinct1?  Within  an  hour  of  his  leaving  to 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  61 

return  to  Mafeking  the  whole  of  Jameson's  regi- 
ment had  broken  camp  and  crossed  the  border. 
Next  morning  I  got  a  wire  which,  de-coded,  read : 
"Jameson  is  here  with  seven  hundred  men  and 
eight  Maxims.  He  will  not  move  for  a  few 
days."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  less  than  five 
hundred  men,  and  had  moved  the  night  before! 
If  any  man  had  grasped  the  position  that  Sun- 
day, and  had  actually  seen  the  start,  how  differ- 
ent might  things  have  been.  I  got  his  wire  at 
eleven  on  Monday  morning.  Had  this  described 
the  true  state  of  things  I  should  at  once  have 
handed  it  to  the  inner  circle,  who  had  no  infor- 
mation till  five  in  the  evening.  With  that  six 
hours  in  hand,  and  a  peremptory  message  sent  out 
to  Jameson  from  Rhodes  and  the  High  Commis- 
sioner, it  is  conceivable  he  might  have  turned 
back. 

As  it  was,  the  inner  circle  was  staggered,  and 
there  was  consternation  in  high  places.  Jame- 
son's action  had  upset  everything;  their  schemes, 
Rhodes's  schemes,  were  ruined.  What  British 
Government,  what  High  Commissioner  would 
support  action  of  this  sort?  There  were  no  guns 
to  speak  of,  and  little  ammunition.  The  Boers, 
warned  in  time,  were  arming  to  the  teeth.  Their 
commandos  already  converged  on  the  Mafeking 
road. 

At  the  club,  that  first  night,  the  air  was  electric. 


62  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

The  leaders  were  not  there,  and  no  one  seemed 
to  know  just  what  was  happening;  but  it  was 
taken  for  granted  that  Jameson  would  ride 
through  the  streets  in  a  day  or  two,  and  at  the 
thought  of  a  successful  revolution,  of  the  final 
overthrow  of  Krugerism,  we  shouted  so  that  the 
rafters  rang.  Quite  a  number  of  members  were 
drunk.  Patriotic  songs  were  sung  in  unison,  and 
as  this  or  that  man  came  in  he  received  an  ovation. 
In  a  moment  of  exaltation,  a  gigantic  Afrikander 
jumped  on  the  bar.  Piled  upon  it  were  immense 
numbers  of  glasses.  With  his  powerful  legs  he 
swept  these  to  destruction,  and  stood  poised  up 
there,  the  only  living  thing.  Flushed  with  in- 
tense excitement,  he  had  shattered  some  hundreds 
of  tumblers. 

Rising  early  next  morning,  I  dressed  deliber- 
ately as  for  a  revolution.  I  wore  my  oldest  suit, 
leggings,  and  my  golfing  boots,  but  discarded 
trousers  for  riding  breeches,  as  looking  a  thought 
manlier;  then  I  pressed  a  wide-brimmed  hat  on 
my  head  and  made  for  the  streets.  My  appear- 
ance at  once  impressed  some  one  in  authority, 
whom,  I  cannot  now  remember.  Taking  me  to 
Heygate's  stables,  he  pulled  aside  a  heap  of 
straw,  disclosing  a  number  of  rifles.  These  he 
instructed  me  to  carry,  secretly,  to  a  rendezvous 
in  Doornfontein,  and  disappeared. 

I  proceeded  to  commandeer  a  Cape  Boy  driving 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  63 

a  wagon  and  four  mules.  Loading  the  wagon 
with  rifles,  which  we  again  covered  with  straw, 
I  mounted  beside  him.  As  we  trotted  down  Com- 
missioner Street,  several  of  the  police  looked  sus- 
picious, but  in  the  general  excitement  no  one 
challenged.  I  reached  Doornfontein  safely,  and 
handed  over  my  cargo. 

That  afternoon  there  was  no  need  for  further 
secrecy.  The  Government  had  withdrawn  the 
police  into  the  fort,  and  we  were  free  to  act.  The 
inner  circle  had  not  been  idle.  The  Reform  Com- 
mittee was  in  being,  a  manifesto  had  been  issued, 
volunteers  were  pouring  in,  and  military  prepara- 
tions were  in  full  swing. 

Our  regiment,  nucleus  of  that  "five  hundred 
picked  men,"  assembled  in  Government  Square 
at  5  p.m.  It  was  the  Old  Guard  of  Johannes- 
burg, the  aristocracy  of  the  Rand !  Many  of  its 
members  belonged  to  the  club,  some  drove  their 
carriages,  and  there  were  men  in  its  ranks  who 
played  poker  with  a  £2  "ante."  .„  Nor  did  we 
stand  there  mere  revolutionary  riff-raff.  It  was 
already  known  among  us  that  some  generous 
source  behind  the  Reform  Committee  was  financ- 
ing this  rising,  and  that  we  were  to  receive  each 
£l  a  day  for  our  services. 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  our  captain  rode  down 
the  lines  on  a  white  horse.  We  cheered  him. 
He  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  made  a  speech;  we 


64  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

cheered  again.  Then,  following  blindly  and  sing- 
ing, we  marched  out  of  the  square  and  up  Hos- 
pital Hill,  into  the  night. 

We  marched  on  to  the  ridge  above  the  town, 
and  were  dismissed.  We  were  there,  the  place  of 
honour,  to  guard  the  reservoir,  and  in  the  probable 
line  of  attack.  It  was  late,  and  most  found  shel- 
ter and  sleep  within  the  walls  of  the  unfinished 
Nazareth  Home. 

That  night,  in  the  brilliant  moonlight,  the  old 
year  died.  Lying  on  the  ground,  I  took  mid- 
night by  my  watch,  and  wondered  what  the  New 
Year  would  bring  forth.  At  the  dawn  a  bugle 
call  summoned  us.  Turning  out,  we  found  our 
camp  was  increased,  Cornish  miners  and  other 
sturdy  volunteers  having  been  sent  up  during  the 
night.  Arms  were  being  distributed  and  maga- 
zines filled;  in  the  grey  light  unaccustomed  hands 
fingered  triggers  and  two  rifles  went  off.  An  un- 
easy feeling  was  generated,  but  there  were  no 
casualties. 

Two  Maxims  were  being  placed  in  position; 
these  we  were  set  to  build  round  with  rocks.  In 
the  afternoon  the  Nazareth  Home  was  trenched. 
Blankets,  stores,  and  food  were  pouring  in,  and 
our  regimental  cooks  began  to  serve  up  fairish 
meals.  Every  now  and  then  some  smartly  dressed 
young  fellow  on  a  polo  pony  would  gallop  up, 
give  instructions  to  our  officers,  and  dash  off 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  65 

again;  these  were  staff  officers  from  headquarters. 

I  listened  to  two  Cornish  miners  handling  their 
Lee-Metfords.  "What's  this1?"  said  one,  point- 
ing to  the  magazine.  "That's  for  sandwiches." 
That  day,  too,  one  of  the  staff  officers,  halted  in 
his  gallop  by  a  bank  clerk  disguised  as  a  sentry, 
and  told  to  "Stand,  and  give  the  counterfoil!" 
was  greatly  shocked.  At  sunset  a  bugle  called  us 
out  to  drill,  and  sentries  were  placed  a  mile  out. 

The  next  night  was  the  most  thrilling  in  my 
life.  At  dusk,  with  four  others,  I  went  out  on 
all-night  sentry-go.  We  were  placed  beside  a 
small  wood  on  the  ridge  above  the  town,  some 
half  a  mile  from  the  police  fort.  It  was  pitch 
dark,  raining  heavily,  and  while  two  patrolled  the 
wood-side  the  others  lay  soaking  under  such  shel- 
ter as  waterproofs  gave. 

Suddenly  we  started  up.  From  the  police  fort 
two  signal  balls  of  coloured  fire  had  been  thrown 
into  the  air;  they  were  continued,  with  intervals, 
for  an  hour.  The  enemy  was  stirring.  This  was 
about  ten  o'clock. 

Quiet  fell  again.  The  rain  was  heavier  than 
ever;  as  the  time  passed  we  were  uneasily  alert, 
and  kept  peering  into  the  wood. 

Then  from  Johannesburg  came  two  rumbling 
explosions.  We  looked  at  one  another,  and  some 
one  said,  "The  railway's  been  blown  up."  The 


66  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Staats  Artillerie  was  being  rushed  through  to 
Krugersdorp. 

We  were  painfully  excited.  We  knew  Jameson 
was  not  far  off  and  that  the  Boers  were  closing 
in  on  him.  By  two  o'clock  the  rain  had  nearly 
ceased  and  the  air  was  clearer.  At  half-past  two, 
from  somewhere  on  the  West  Rand,  came  a  long, 
low  growl.  Then  another,  and  another!  From 
that  distance  it  was  just  the  growl  of  a  dog.  It 
was  Jameson's  Maxims.  They  were  on  him  al- 
ready ! 

Five  or  six  times  before  the  dawn  there  were 
spurts  from  the  Maxims,  and  then  long,  silent 
intervals.  All  the  time  we  patrolled  up  and 
down  and  kept  peering  into  the  wood. 

Day  broke  to  a  renewed  burst  of  firing.  The 
rain  had  stopped,  but  we  were  drenched  to  the 
skin.  A  feeling  of  impending  calamity  was  on  us ; 
I  was  disillusioned  and  depressed;  another  mem- 
ber of  the  patrol,  in  ecstasy  of  abandonment, 
dragged  behind  him  a  mud-covered  blanket.  So, 
marching  two  and  two  behind  our  corporal,  we 
returned  to  the  camp. 

Six  hours  later  I  awoke,  refreshed.  I  looked 
round  surprised,  for  Nazareth  Home  was  empty; 
there  was  no  one  in  sight.  Taking  up  my  rifle, 
I  went  outside,  and  there,  lining  the  trenches  to 
overflow,  lay  the  Old  Guard. 

"What's  the  matter1?"  I  cried. 


67 

Some  one  raised  his  arm  and  pointed;  coming 
up  Bezuidenhout's  Valley  was  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"It's  the  Boers,"  said  several,  and  I,  not  know- 
ing how  Boers  approached  their  foes,  thought, 
"It's  come  at  last." 

But  it  was  not  the  Boers.  Some  Kaffirs  were 
driving  a  herd  of  cattle  up  the  valley;  as  the 
leading  animals  showed  through  the  dust,  the 
trenches  disgorged. 

There  had  been  distant  firing  all  morning,  and 
we  felt  things  were  going  wrong.  A  dozen  of 
us  roamed  disconsolately  over  the  veld,  and  about 
lunch- time  were  outside  E.  P.  Rathbone's  house. 
He  was  State  mining  inspector  then;  officially 
an  enemy.  But  what  an  enemy!  We  were  sum- 
moned indoors,  and,  in  less  time  than  I  can  write 
the  words,  were  sitting  down  to  a  superb  round 
of  beef,  with  two  vegetables.  Rathbone  and  his 
wife  served  us  themselves;  and  what  with  the 
good  food  and  the  cheerful  talk,  our  spirits  went 
up  with  a  bound. 

I  have  never  forgotten  that  kindly  act.  Was 
it  not  the  chivalrous  Sir  Philip  Sidney  who  ten- 
dered a  dying  soldier  his  cup  of  water"?  To  us, 
guardians  of  Johannesburg's  reservoir,  such  an 
offering  had  lacked  in  subtlety.  But  this  stout 
joint,  to  men  downhearted !  It  was  of  the  very 
essence  of  fitness. 

Before  night  fell  Jameson  and  his  little  army 


68  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

had  capitulated  at  Doornkop.  Next  day  Cronje 
and  his  Boers  marched  them  to  Pretoria.  Far 
off,  towards  the  line  of  march,  rode  parties  of 
mounted  men,  and  we  could  see  what  some  one 
called  the  "heliotrope"  flashing  the  news  from 
hill  to  hill. 

In  those  few  days  we  only  knew  dimly  what 
was  happening.  But  the  air  was  full  of  wildest 
rumours.  Jameson  and  his  officers  had  been  shot ! 
The  High  Commissioner  was  on  his  way  in  a 
special  train!  Britain  was  enforcing  the  suzer- 
ainty! War  had  been  declared!  Our  Sergeant- 
Major — I  will  call  him  Mclntosh — brother  of  a 
then  famous  prima  donna,  announced  that  two 
hundred  and  fifty  men,  with  led  horses,  had  ar- 
rived from  Natal,  and  were  camped  at  the  City 
and  Suburban  mine.  I  was  fed  up  with  this  sort 
of  thing.  I  said : — 

"I'll  bet  you  a  pound  that's  not  true." 

"Done!" 

I  was  "done!"  The  story  was  a  lie,  like  the 
rest ;  but  to  this  day  I  have  not  seen  the  colour  of 
his  money. 

A  fact  of  psychologic  interest  at  this  strange 
time  was  the  curse  of  militarism  which  now  de- 
scended. Jameson  had  been  for  days  in  Pretoria 
gaol,  Boer  commandos  surrounded  the  Rand,  the 
Staats  Artillerie  waited  the  word  to  blow  us  to 
pieces,  we  knew  by  this  time  our  poverty  in  arms 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  69 

and  ammunition ;  yet,  in  spite  of  this,  our  military 
leaders,  carried  away  by  brief  power  and  author- 
ity, busily  built  up  a  fabric  of  red  tape.  Promo- 
tions were  made,  new  drills  were  put  into  force, 
a  poor  brute  was  put  on  to  practise  bugle  calls, 
and  the  smart-looking  men  on  polo  ponies  gal- 
loped faster  than  ever.  One  morning  the  bugle 
summoned  us  out;  a  mounted  officer  rode  down 
the  line  and  held  up  an  official  paper. 

"Men,"  he  shouted,  'Vou  will  be  glad  to  know 
that  Captain  Goddard  has  been  promoted  major." 
(Cheers.) 

"Sergeant-Major  Mclntosh  has  been  promoted 
to  regimental  sergeant-major."  (Some  cheers, 
and  a  loud  voice  from  the  ranks,  "Why  don't 
you  give  me  that  pound*") 

There  were  other  promotions  which  I  cannot 
recall. 

After  the  officers  had  left,  the  Old  Guard  still 
stood  to  "attention."  I  stepped  from  the  ranks. 

I  said,  "I  have  been  asked  to  present  the  regi- 
mental medal  for  bad  drill."  All  eyes  instinc- 
tively turned  to  G.  C.  Fitzpatrick.  on  whose 
breast,  with  a  few  gracious  words,  I  pinned  the 
tinsel.  Then  a  supreme  moment  came  to  me. 
The  Old  Guard  now  lacked  a  sergeant-major.  A 
deputation  begged  that  I  would  accept  the  post. 

I  said,  "Gentlemen,  I  thank  you.  But  it  can- 
not be.  I  went  into  this  thing  a  private,  and  a 


70  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

private  I  intend  to  remain."  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  saw  where  we  were  drifting.  Before  my  mind's 
eye  had  come  a  vision  of  sunrise  on  the  veld,  and 
a  band  of  officers,  including  sergeant-majors,  be- 
ing led  out  by  the  Boers  for  execution.  So  I 
declared  for  no  responsibility. 

After  Doornkop  I  saw  the  game  was  up.  We 
were  under  arms  for  another  week,  and  hard  at 
work  drilling  before  daybreak;  but  I  used  to  walk 
down  to  the  club  for  lunch. 

One  day  I  heard  Lionel  Phillips  and  John  Hays 
Hammond  address  the  crowd  from  the  Goldfields 
building.  Another,  I  stood  next  Sir  Sidney  Ship- 
pard  as  he  harangued  from  the  balcony  of  the 
Rand  Club.  In  the  afternoons  I  drove  back  to 
camp,  taking  a  few  luxuries  to  eat  and  drink,  and 
we  sat  down  to  a  game  of  poker. 

The  last  phase  came  on  or  about  January  Qth. 
The  Boers  sent  in  to  demand  our  surrender.  If 
we  refused,  they  were  to  blow  Johannesburg  to 
pieces.  It  was  no  idle  threat. 

There  was  indecision  in  the  councils  of  the 
Reform  Committee ;  still  more  among  our  military 
staff.  Our  position  was,  of  course,  hopeless;  but 
there  seemed  to  be  a  feeling  that  the  rank  and  file 
under  arms  would  refuse  to  lay  down  their  rifles, 
and  that  much  futile  bloodshed  might  follow. 

The  Old  Guard  w-as  summoned,  informally,  to 
confer  with  its  commander.  He  laid  the  case 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  71 

before  us.  The  gist  of  his  argument  was,  "Keep 
your  rifles.  Fight  it  out."  It  was  bad  advice — 
indeed,  sheer  madness;  but  the  men  were  flattered. 
They  saw  themselves  emerging  bloody,  but  vic- 
torious. There  were  cries  of  "We'll  follow  you !" 
"Never  give  in !"  "Stick  to  our  rifles !" 

When  the  uproar  had  calmed,  I  said,  "What's 
the  use  of  talking  about  rifles?  The  Reform 
Committee  will  have  to  surrender,  and  the  rifles 
will  be  the  first  things  to  be  given  up." 

A  howl  of  execration  met  me.  I  saw  in  their 
eyes  the  glare  of  men  waiting  for  a  scapegoat, 
and  knew  if  I  said  more  they  would  tear  me  limb 
from  limb.  So  I  left  the  meeting  and  went  off 
to  lunch  at  the  club,  where  I  learned  the  true 
drift  of  things. 

That  evening,  by  command  of  the  Reform 
Committee,  every  rifle  was  handed  over  to  the 
Boers.  The  camp  was  emptied,  the  Old  Guard 
was  disbanded,  and  I  slept  comfortably  in  my  own 
bed. 

The  revolution  was  at  an  end.  We  had  been 
nine  days  under  arms,  and  received  each,  some 
thousands  of  us,  a  cheque  for  £9.  Among  the  Old 
Guard  many  presented  their  cheques  to  the  Johan- 
nesburg Hospital.  Mine  I  spent  on  myself,  thus 
losing  for  all  time  to  come  my  amateur  status. 

The  statement  has  often  been  made  that  the 
people  of  Johannesburg  were  cowards,  who,  after 


72  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

asking  Jameson  to  come  to  their  aid,  left  him 
deliberately  to  his  fate.  This  is  just  as  much  a 
lie  as  the  rumours  which  gained  credence  in  those 
days. 

From  the  leaders  downward,  the  people  of 
Johannesburg  had  their  full  share  of  pluck.  Had 
there  been  fighting,  as  was  expected  daily,  they 
would  have  put  up  a  good  fight. 

The  Reform  Committee,  sitting  day  and  night, 
shirked  no  responsibility.  The  leaders  them- 
selves showed  they  possessed  other  virtues  than 
money.  They  came  out  of  the  thing  well.  It  is 
to  those  few  days  in  council,  for  example,  that 
George  Farrar  owes  his  present  position. 

What  could  we  have  done?  Jameson,  by  his 
action,  had  ruined  everything.  To  rise,  after  he 
had  cut  the  wires  and  crossed  the  border,  gave  us 
no  political  status.  We  had  few  arms  and  little 
ammunition.  We  were  unmounted.  Ere  we  had 
gone  a  mile  to  meet  him  we  had  been  blown  to 
pieces. 

The  leaders  stood  by  Jameson  through  it  all. 
When  the  world,  not  knowing  the  truth,  called 
them  cowards  and  craven,  they  answered  with 
never  a  word,  taking  the  obloquy.  There  was 
much  of  the  essence  of  farce  in  this  revolution; 
but  the  men  who  ran  it  did  their  duty  in  the  face 
of  heavy  odds,  and  the  rank  and  file  were  ready 
to  do  theirs.  We  were  not  shirkers. 


THE  TORTOISE'S  HEAD  73 

And  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is  Jameson's 
career.  Handed  over  to  our  Government  by 
Kruger,  he  went  to  prison  for  a  season.  In  after- 
years,  the  political  mantle  qf  the  dead  Colossus 
fell  on  him.  He  became  Premier  of  the  Cape. 
There,  by  his  magnetic  charm  and  real  ability, 
he  did  the  work  of  a  statesman.  He  was  loved 
by  the  English,  respected  by  the  Dutch.  The 
man  who  once  set  Africa  ablaze  lived  to  become 
a  potent  factor  toward  its  ultimate  unification. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"LIFE'S  Liguon" 

THE  passion  for  travel,  which  has  given  my 
life  its  bent,  was  to  tear  me  from  my  beloved 
South  Africa.  I  left  there  in  1897.  Like  others, 
I  needed  to  work;  since  the  old  Nigel  days  I 
have  inspected  more  than  five  hundred  mines. 
But,  work  or  no  work,  I  had  to  travel ;  my  brain, 
my  whole  being,  never  left  that  in  doubt.  Be- 
fore I  was  forty  I  had  seen  the  world  from  end 
to  end. 

After  the  most  fatuous  "mining"  course  on 
record,  I  left  Cambridge  just  one  of  that  mass  of 
well-reared,  half-educated,  almost  useless  young 
men  whom  the  British  system  turns  out  year  after 
year.  I  was  a  gentleman,  but  no  mining  engineer. 
I  could  row,  and  play  billiards,  and  drink  claret 
cup,  but  was  no  earthly  use  with  a  theodolite. 
Yet  mining  is  a  fine  profession;  it  calls  for  char- 
acter, ability,  and  men  fit  for  any  station,  and 
that  the  social  Universities  practically  bar  the 
would-be  mining  engineer  is  one  of  the  many  lines 
along  which  they  fail.  We  have  need  of  our  best 
in  mining,  brainy  men,  men  of  breeding,  because 

74 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  75 

the  interests  at  stake  are  national — for  example, 
we  control  60  per  cent,  of  the  world's  output  of 
gold.  We  must,  too,  keep  in  the  running  with  the 
United  States.  The  Americans  lead  the  world 
in  mining,  and  have  built  up  a  stupendous  indus- 
try. They  have  great  mineral  resources  to  draw 
on,  it  is  true,  yet  not  greater  than  those  of  the 
British  Empire.  But  in  America  the  mining  engi- 
neer is  high  in  the  social  scale;  he  ranks  with 
the  best;  he  is  a  college  man,  following  up  with 
a  technical  education  at  one  or  other  of  the  Uni- 
versities that  puts  our  technical  system  to  shame. 
He  is  credited  with  brains  far  above  the  ruck. 
An  American  mining  engineer,  well  known  to  me, 
was  offered,  and  declined,  the  post  of  Minister 
to  China. 

Now  what  is  the  position  of  the  mining 
engineer  in  English  society?  To  many  people 
he  figures  as  a  superior  mechanic;  to  others  he 
is  the  superintendent  of  a  coalpit ;  to  women,  who 
are  extraordinarily  vague  in  these  things,  he  is 
a  sort  of  stoker,  and  to  a  mother  in  society,  even 
where  no  butler  might  be  kept,  a  mining  engineer 
as  a  parti  would  be  unthinkable. 

I  want  to  see  these  things  altered.  Some  of 
our  best  and  brainiest  are  needed  in  mining,  be- 
cause its  value  to  the  nation  increases  each  year. 
Your  great  engineer  of  the  future  will  mean  more 
to  the  state  than  any  bishop. 


76  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

I  developed  a  great  love  of  gold-mining.  On 
the  Rand,  in  1893,  I  spent  my  Saturday  after- 
noons walking  along  the  deep  levels,  and  gauged 
their  value.  I  bought  block  after  block,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  while  Alfred  Beit  bought  them  for 
cash  and  made  his  millions.  In  later  years,  when 
the  Rand  went  deep-level  mad,  I  was  first  to 
point  out  that  these  mines  were  poorer  than  the 
shallower  mines,  and  the  finance  of  many  of  them 
unsound.  I  was  laughed  at,  then  reviled.  But  I 
knew  my  facts,  and  time  proved  me  only  too 
right.  In  any  mining  question,  instinct  guided 
me  at  once  to  the  money  aspect.  Would  it  pay? 
I  saw  clever  men  absorbed  in  side  issues — in  geol- 
ogy, in  machinery,  in  electric  schemes — things  of 
secondary  importance ;  for  me,  if  a  mine  was  poor, 
if  it  even  looked  shaky,  all  the  geology  of  Lyell, 
all  the  electric  erudition  of  Siemens  and  Halske, 
were  as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal. 

Specializing  in  my  own  branch — in  mine  valu- 
ation— I  gave  up  the  executive  side;  not  through 
dislike,  but  because  I  wanted  freedom  to  travel. 
I  valued  mines,  I  wrote  reports,  but  my  physical 
labours,  except  in  sampling  work,  were  at  an  end. 

I  have  often  regretted  this;  not  deeply,  but  a 
little  wistfully.  It  is  pleasant  to  visit  a  mine,  to 
spend  some  weeks  over  a  valuation,  and  then  to 
be  off  elsewhere ;  yet  deep  down  in  me  is  the  idea 
that  the  man  who  sticks  to  one  mine,  who  builds 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  77 

it  up  from  a  mere  prospect  into  a  great  organiza- 
tion, has  chosen  the  better  part.  Such  a  man 
builds  up  his  character  with  his  mine;  he  creates, 
he  gives  to  the  world  more  than  he  takes.  Re- 
tiring at  length,  a  master  craftsman,  he  looks  back 
upon  a  work  begun,  succeeding,  carried  through 
— upon  an  existence  holding  all  the  elements  of 
thoroughness. 

I  feel  I  was  born  to  manage  a  great  mine.  The 
qualities  were  there — financial,  executive,  admin- 
istrative— though  I  did  not  use  them.  With  na- 
tives, too,  I  could  do  anything.  I  have  known 
for  years  that  the  greatest  problem  of  the  Rand 
lies  in  the  technical — not  the  mental — education 
of  the  Kaffir.  Given  a  mine  to  run,  I  had  carried 
this  education  of  black  muscles  some  stages  for- 
ward a  decade  ago. 

But  these  are  vain  imaginings;  I  have  never 
run  a  gold-mine,  and  now  I  never  shall.  Yet 
those  ideal  assay  plans!  Those  ore-reserves — 
"probable,"  and  "on  three  sides,"  and  near  the 
million  mark!  Those  clean,  narrow  stopes, 
through  which  I  should  have  passed  by  day,  and 
often,  too,  by  night!  Those  wonderful  analyses 
of  labour  and  of  expenditure ! — things  that  once 
flowered  as  daydreams,  that  seethed  in  my  brain 
as  actualities,  are  now  withered  and  nearly  dead. 

Still,  I  can  value  a  mine,  clarify  facts  into  small 


78  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

compass,  and  write  a  report.  These,  in  their  way, 
are  proper  things,  and  I  must  not  complain. 

For  fifteen  years  I  was  more  or  less  behind  the 
scenes  in  metal-mining.  I  knew  the  managers  on 
every  field  and  the  leading  engineers  in  every  cen- 
tre. I  knew  just  how  mines  were  developing  all 
over  the  world — how  this  one  was  improving,  this 
declining,  and  that  other  being  forced  for  stock- 
jobbing. My  knowledge  of  the  personnel  of  the 
mining  world  was  unique.  I  knew  that  one  man's 
nod  meant  everything  to  me,  and  another's 
twenty-page  report  nothing  at  all.  I  carry  in  my 
head  a  list  of  technical  blackguards  that  is  pe- 
culiarly replete,  and  in  the  streets  of  San  Fran- 
cisco it  was  given  me  to  cut  an  archplotter  of  these 
gentry  dead. 

As  to  the  speculative  side  of  mining — a  differ- 
ent sphere — the  more  I  got  to  know,  the  less  I 
gambled.  I  found  out  early  that  the  market  value 
of  a  mine  need  have  no  relation  to  the  intrinsic; 
that  nearly  all  mines  are  over-valued,  and  that 
bargains  are  few  and  far  between.  Not  that  I 
disapprove  of  speculation;  far  from  it,  but  one 
wants  better  value  for  money  than  is  seen  in  the 
mining  list.  Beware  the  mine  that  is  puffed. 
Beware  the  type  of  director  who  takes  the  cream 
off  early  information.  Mines  are  harmless  things 
in  themselves,  but  the  men  who  control  them  are 
rarely  harmless.  How  needful  it  is  that  the  men 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  79 

who  work  them  shall  be  above  suspicion !  Mining 
shares  are  bought,  as  a  rule,  on  sentiment — on  the 
swing  of  the  pendulum.  One  day  sentiment  is 
good,  and  a  hundred  Rand  shares  go  up.  Senti- 
ment continues  good,  and  they  go  up  further. 
After  a  time  there  is  a  burst  of  buying,  almost  a 
"boom,"  and  yet  there  has  been  no  change  what- 
ever in  intrinsic  values. 

The  public  gambles  in  this  way  because  it  must. 
It  is  in  the  nature  of  things.  They  take  immense 
risks,  and  rarely  stand  to  win;  but  if  they  choose 
so  to  act,  who  is  to  interfere1?  I  once  thought 
it  my  mission  to  educate  the  public  about  mines. 
I  got  over  that,  even  as  I  got  over  trying  to  edu- 
cate my  friends.  A  mining  engineer  should  not 
give  casual  advice.  Let  things  go  well,  and  the 
recipients  fawn  upon  him;  but  let  the  pendulum 
swing,  and  vituperation  is  not  the  word.  He 
meant  well ;  but  he  stood  to  gain  nothing  and  to 
lose  a  lot.  Believe  me,  it  is  a  fool's  game. 

Advice  given  free  is  little  valued.  I  was 
closeted  once  with  a  merchant  in  Glasgow.  He 
said,  "You  wrote  a  report  on  West  Australian 
mines  for  my  friend,  which  I  saw,  and  acted  on. 
I  bought  shares  which  to-day  show  a  profit  of 
£180,000.  What  am  I  to  do?"  I  said,  "It  is  no 
concern  of  mine,  and  in  a  matter  like  this  you  are 
not  likely  to  be  guided  by  any  one ;  still,  I  beg  of 
you  to  sell  out  at  once,  and  realize." 


80  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

But,  like  Naaman  the  Syrian,  the  advice  he  got 
was  too  simple.  Worse,  he  had  gotten  it  for 
nothing,  and  gave  it  therefore  little  heed.  He 
decided  not  to  sell.  The  market,  in  course  of 
time,  fell  appreciably,  his  great  profit  melted 
away,  and  presently,  like  that  other  in  the  Scrip- 
ture story,  "He  went  out  a  leper  as  white  as 
snow." 

In  speculation  there  is  a  sound  maxim:  stick 
to  what  you  know.  Mines  I  know,  and,  with 
patience,  chances  come.  But  Rails  I  don't  know, 
and  some  years  ago  stood  to  lose  a  large  sum  of 
money.  I  had  bought  shares  in  a  line  I  shall  call 
the  New  Central;  but  the  better  times  foretold 
for  this  road  had  failed  to  eventuate.  The  price 
was  sagging  away;  I  was  disgusted,  yet  unwilling 
to  take  definite  action  and  cut  my  loss.  The  line 
was  controlled,  and  its  bonds  held,  by  a  man  we 
will  call  Murphy,  a  great  capitalist,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  the  psychology  of  share  markets  was  re- 
puted profound. 

One  day  I  read  a  cable  in  the  press.  It  said 
something  like  this:  "Mr.  Murphy,  the  railroad 
magnate,  has  presented  a  cathedral  to  New  Edin- 
burgh." I  read  the  words  again,  and  my  hands 
that  held  the  paper  shook  as  with  palsy.  Holy 
Moses!  Did  I,  a  child,  think  to  match  myself 
with  such  "as  these?  But  there  was  yet  time.  I 
cabled  that  day  to  my  agents,  "Sell  my  New 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  81 

Centrals  at  once."  They  were  sold,  and  my  loss 
was  considerable;  but  within  a  year  the  road  was 
in  the  receiver's  hands,  and  the  shares  went  for 
an  old  song.  I  keep  to  mines  now.  I  find  it  safer. 
I  want  a  new  goldfield.  The  baser  metals 
fluctuate  too  much;  gold  only  is  stable.  Except- 
ing the  fields  in  Nevada,  and  the  dredging  of 
gravels  in  Siberia  and  Alaska,  there  has  been  no 
big  field  discovered  for  twenty  years.  I  rack  my 
brains  for  a  locality.  I  travel  to  and  fro  unceas- 
ingly. I  watch  for  the  slightest  sign.  I  pray 
that  a  great  goldfield  lies  in  the  womb  of  the  near 
future. 

As  I  sought  out  the  world's  beauties,  so  I 
have  searched  for  her  best  peoples.  The  nations, 
first  and  last,  have  passed  before  me.  They  are 
like  men — good,  bad,  indifferent — to  be  judged, 
too,  like  men,  with  tolerance,  for  environment  is 
the  controlling  factor. 

The  peoples  to  whom  I  find  myself  closest — 
the  virile  and  intelligent  among  the  nations — are 
the  Americans,  the  Scandinavians,  the  Chinese, 
and,  if  we  may  call  them  a  nation,  the  Jews. 
With  these  races  I  find  myself  in  sympathy,  from 
them  I  can  learn;  I  can  respect  them — in  brief, 
they  are  my  affinities. 

I  would  we  had  the  vitality,  the  wit,  of  the 
average  American.  The  Americans  come  first 


82  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

with  me.  They  must  come  first;  they  are  largely 
of  our  blood.  Foolish  old  George  III,  whom 
chance  made  a  king,  and  Nature  endowed  with 
the  stubbornness  of  a  mule,  sundered  us.  Inde- 
pendence Day,  the  revolt  of  common  sense  against 
autocracy,  should  be  a  festival  for  all  men  of 
British  race.  The  American  is  changing.  Other 
strains  begin  to  course  in  his  blood,  and  environ- 
ment, that  potent  factor,  is  creating  a  new  type. 
The  climate  chisels  those  clear-cut  Indian  profiles 
that  are  so  attractive,  even  as  it  causes  the  nasal 
twang  that  is  not. 

The  strong  points  of  the  American — his  energy, 
his  big  ideas,  his  mastery  of  material  problems — 
are  known  to  all  the  world.  Those  who  will  not 
acknowledge  his  supremacy  in  these  are  distorted 
in  vision  or  jealous.  In  my  own  profession  I 
find  a  visit  to  the  States  quickens  me.  I  feel 
new  thoughts  at  work,  big  brains  shaping  big 
schemes,  energy  all  around  me.  My  brain  catches 
something  of  this,  and  responds.  These  men 
make  me  think,  and  I  am  grateful. 

Where  money  is  concerned,  the  average  Ameri- 
can's standard  is  held  to  be  lax.  Yet  who  are  we 
to  judge?  Beside  other  men,  is  his  sin  more  than 
a  matter  of  degree*?  We  have  our  own  under- 
world, where  army  contracts  are  given  out,  where 
municipal  jobbery  exists,  where  our  retired,  dis- 
tinguished men  become  City  parasites,  and  where 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  83 

titles  are  flagrantly  bought  and  sold.  The  Ameri- 
can's sin  (though  I  do  not  extenuate  it)  is  largely 
the  product  of  environment:  for  in  this  great, 
new,  rich  land,  where  fortunes  are  to  be  had  for 
the  grasping,  and  where  the  able  men,  the  leaders, 
are  still  amassing,  public  opinion  is  yet  in  flux. 
In  time,  they  will  turn  from  private  to  national 
affairs,  public  opinion  will  crystallize,  and  the 
States  settle  down  to  such  a  stable  moral  level  as 
our  frail  human  nature  permits. 

It  is  not  all  money-making  with  the  Ameri- 
can. Some  years  ago  a  funeral  passed  under  the 
flamboyants  and  tamarinds  at  Bangkok,  and  a 
grave  received  one  Strobel,  legal  adviser  to  the 
King.  Chulalongkorn,  that  intelligent  monarch, 
attended  for  the  first  time  a  Christian  burial,  and 
said  these  words  to  those  there  assembled:  "This 
man  was  a  foreigner,  an  American,  yet  he  was  my 
trusted  friend,  and  the  best  adviser  Siam  ever  had. 
I  deeply  mourn  his  loss." 

The  American,  to  sum  him  up,  is  crudely 
emotional,  weak  in  his  handling  of  women,  and 
sets  dollar-making  as  the  goal  of  life;  he  is  men- 
tally alert,  can  concentrate  on  and  succeed  in  any 
path  of  life,  he  is  a  compeller  of  nature,  above 
all  men  a  doer  of  things,  humorous,  and  sound  at 
heart.  I  am  for  the  Americans  first,  last,  and  all 
the  time. 

The  Scandinavians,  that  is  to  say  Danes,  Nor- 


84  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

wegians,  Swedes,  and  Finns,  are  the  most  ad- 
vanced peoples  of  the  world.  They  belong  to 
what  we  call  the  "Minor  Powers,"  but  in  the 
value  they  extract  from  life  are  altogether  ahead 
of  British  and  Americans. 

Scandinavians  are,  without  exception,  soundly 
educated.  Tending  to  things  of  the  mind,  they 
produce  artists,  scientists,  and  men  distinguished 
in  life,  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  numbers. 
This  high  note  of  intelligence  is  reflected  in  the 
faces  of  their  women,  adding  quite  markedly  (if 
I  except  the  Finns)  to  their  sexual  attractions. 
These  people  have  solved  problems  we  have  not 
begun  to  solve.  Life  is  evener  with  them ;  money 
and  happiness  more  divided  than  among  us. 
There  is  still  the  struggle  for  wealth;  but  there 
are  many  who  do  not  participate,  who,  with  mod- 
erate, even  small  possessions,  are  well  balanced 
and  contented,  drawing  from  education  and  their 
own  minds  a  satisfaction  with  life  which  we  often 
lack. 

The  problem  of  poverty,  easier  no  doubt  for 
small  States  than  for  great,  has  been  solved,  and 
the  old  are  well  cared  for.  The  drink  curse, 
much  less  rampant  than  with  us,  has  been  taken 
in  hand.  In  the  Swedish  city  of  Gottenburg  a 
man  cannot  get  drunk;  but,  by  way  of  compen- 
sation, for  the  payment  of  one  penny  can  spend 
his  evening  in  Tradgardsforenigen.  This  garden, 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  85 

on  a  summer's  night,  is  perhaps  the  loveliest  spot 
in  Europe.  It  is  full  of  fine  old  trees  and  thou- 
sands of  flowers;  there  is  a  good  restaurant,  and 
a  first-rate  military  band:  if  the  weather  is  cold 
or  wet,  the  concert  is  held  under  cover.  Thus 
Gottenburg  treats  its  citizens,  and  a  more  lovely 
garden  or  a  more  contented  crowd  I  have  rarely 
seen. 

Denmark  has  solved  the  problem  of  agriculture 
and  stock-rearing,  or,  more  correctly,  the  problem 
of  the  peasant  proprietor.  The  thriftless,  unedu- 
cated Briton  of  the  same  social  grade,  handi- 
capped no  doubt  by  the  land  laws,  is  many  years 
behind  the  Dane  in  this  great  branch  of  progress. 

The  Swedes  are  a  scientific  people;  they  are 
advanced  in  the  application  of  chemistry,  and  in 
the  use  of  the  telephone  lead  the  world.  A  Swede 
is  one  of  the  greatest  living  physicists.  They  are 
blessed  with  a  fair  land.  Stockholm,  in  summer, 
is  the  most  charming  city  in  all  Europe,  and  the 
steamers  that  sail  out  nightly  for  the  Gulf  of 
Finland  or  the  island  of  Gotland  traverse  a  sound 
of  surpassing  beauty. 

The  Swede  is  a  German  with  a  Frenchman's 
polish.  He  is  the  least  stable  of  the  Scandina- 
vians, and  is  held  to  be  rather  insincere.  The 
Swedish  woman  is  a  fine  creature;  together  with 
the  Austrian,  I  place  her  first  of  her  sex. 

The   Norwegian,   living  by   rock-girt,   stormy 


86  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

coast  or  lonely  fjord,  is  a  gloomy  man.  The 
sound  of  the  waves  beating  in  winter  has  echoed 
in  a  hundred  generations  of  Norwegian  brains; 
how  shall  he  then  be  else?  Note  in  his  capital, 
Christiania,  the  psychologic  gloom — the  effect  on 
architecture  of  his  predominating  mood;  the  pal- 
ace, the  parliament,  the  national  theatre  are  som- 
bre in  the  extreme.  Christiania  is  a  city  in  a 
minor  key. 

Yet,  beneath  his  gloom,  the  Norwegian  is  a 
thinker,  an  intellectuel.  This  cold  Northerner  is 
fired  by  imagination,  his  soul  finds  expression  in 
art,  and  that  Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Grieg,  foremost  in 
the  art  of  their  day,  should  have  been  born,  and 
lived,  at  one  and  the  same  time  in  this  small  com- 
munity is  a  fact  of  profound  interest.  A  people 
less  thoughtful  than  these,  at  the  time  of  sever- 
ance from  Sweden,  might  have  declared  for  a  re- 
public. They  pondered  the  matter;  they  declared 
for  a  constitutional  king,  and  this  small  people's 
action  against  the  wave  of  republicanism  is  again 
matter  for  serious  thought.  The  sad  note  in  the 
Norwegian  is  undoubted;  yet  it  is  the  sadness  of 
the  sea,  not  of  despair.  Statistics  show  that  he 
takes  his  own  life  one-third  as  often  as  the  more 
joyous  Swede,  and  one-fourth  as  often  as  that 
deep  questioner  of  life,  the  "melancholy  Dane." 

The  Finn  I  sometimes  think  of  as  the  most 
Christlike    of    men.      Longsuffering,    his    ideals 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  87 

stifled  by  his  ethical  inferiors,  his  ugly  face  seems 
stamped  with  sadness.  Those  who  know,  while 
admitting  his  virtues,  point  to  a  dourness  in  him, 
to  a  political  stubbornness,  which  Russia  met  with 
tolerance,  and  to  his  bitter  jealousy  of  the  many 
and  more  enlightened  Swedes  who  live  in  his 
land.  Granted.  Yet  I  know  the  Finns  to  be 
mild,  kind,  simple-natured.  A  Finn  has  given 
me  his  berth  on  a  crowded  steamer,  railway  guards 
have  refused  my  tips,  and  to  others  of  the  race  I 
owe  many  a  kindly  act.  One  does  not  forget 
these  things.  The  forests,  with  their  clearings, 
and  the  lakes  of  Finland  are  not  the  least  among 
the  pleasant  stretches  of  Scandinavia;  they  shel- 
ter a  people  from  whom  we  have  much  to  learn. 

Now,  here  should  have  stood  the  German.  A 
man  cannot  forget  the  joy  of  his  youth;  and  the 
joy  of  mine,  over  several  years,  lay  in  South  Ger- 
many. Here  were  spacious  and  seemly  cities; 
pleasant  country  roads,  where  hung  unmolested 
in  summer  time  apples  and  plums  and  peaches; 
deep  forests,  where  you  walked  for  solitude;  riv- 
ers banked  by  mediaeval  castles,  and  by  vineyards 
yielding  incomparable  wine;  and  over  all  was  the 
glamour  of  music.  I  could  not  but  feel  for  the 
Germans  what  I  felt  for  Germany. 

I  was  wrong.  These  gifted,  diligent,  disci- 
plined people  were  already  organising  a  dreadful 


88  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

sin;  and  a  time  was  coming  which  would  prove 
them  traitors  to  our  human  race. 

But  let  the  past  bury  its  dead.  We,  Britons 
and  Americans,  have  got  to  give  the  Germans  an- 
other chance.  Common  sense  demands  we  should 
trade  with  them;  fair  play  demands  they  should 
have  a  hearing,  and  justice,  and  that  we  bear  our- 
selves even  with  sympathy  where  it  is  possible.  I, 
the  agnostic,  tell  you  that.  In  the  Bible,  five 
righteous  men  were  able  to  save  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah; and  there  are  more  than  five  in  Ger- 
many. 

I  do  not  say  we  shall  succeed.  But  we  may — • 
sometimes.  In  the  war  my  brother  was  mortally 
wounded.  The  Germans  carried  him  to  Bohain 
hospital,  and  there  came  later  to  my  sister  "quite 
a  nice  letter  from  the  chief  doctor,  who  seems  to 
have  been  a  decent  sort  of  man."  I  am  going  to 
give  this  man  and  his  fellows  a  chance — for  my 
brother's  memory. 

The  German,  in  the  years  to  come,  may  do  one 
of  two  things.  He  may  harden  his  heart,  and 
seek  revenge.  To  do  this,  he  will  ally  himself 
with  Russia,  raising  Russia  from  the  dust,  organ- 
ising that  vast  population,  those  limitless  re- 
sources, and  later,  it  may  be,  link  up  with  Japan 
in  a  powerful  alliance.  Or  he  may  soften  his 
heart,  and  seek  that  respect  he  has  lost.  This  is 
not  so  wild  a  surmise.  The  Law  of  Reaction  (we 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  89 

cannot  formulate  it,  but  it  is  a  law)  will  keep 
pulling  the  German  for  decades  to  come.  When 
in  its  grip,  if  we  handle  him  wisely,  we  may  yet 
see  good  come  out  of  evil,  and  things  develop  to 
a  human  solution. 

The  Jews  are  the  most  gifted  among  the  na- 
tions; they  are,  truly,  the  "Chosen  People." 
Their  eminence,  relative  to  their  numbers,  in  art, 
in  literature,  in  music,  in  finance  and  in  many 
other  paths  of  human  effort,  is  quite  extraordi- 
nary. Their  women,  as  I  have  remarked  in 
Odessa,  Warsaw,  and  other  Jewish  centres,  are 
in  their  youth  notable  for  their  beauty.  The 
Jew  is  many-sided;  his  facets  are  those  of  the 
diamond — his  chosen  stone.  The  dirtiest,  the 
vulgarest  people  I  have  known  have  been  Jews, 
and  some  of  the  most  refined;  the  grossest  ma- 
terialists are  Jews,  and  the  truest  idealists.  There 
is  in  the  Jew  a  strong  vein  of  poetry,  running  to 
mysticism;  he  is  an  Oriental  still. 

The  Jew  is  not  so  much  intellectual,  as  in- 
nately, weirdly  shrewd  and  gifted;  he  rises  with 
lesser  effort  than  others.  His  cast  of  countenance 
is  rather  repellent,  his  manners  are  too  florid,  he 
is  rarely  what  the  British  call  "good  form" ;  but 
he  is  goodnatured,  he  does  not  hit  back,  his  women 
are  extraordinarily  faithful  to  him,  and,  setting 
aside  my  admitted  predilection,  I  believe  him  an 


90  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

altogether  better  man  than  his  jealous  Christian 
rivals  allow. 

And  the  Chinaman !  As  the  Englishman  is  the 
personality  among  Western  peoples,  so  us  the 
Chinaman  in  the  East.  The  personality,  the  char- 
acter of  China,  of  these  400,000,000,  is  a  very 
profound  fact  in  the  world;  beside  it,  Japan  re- 
cedes in  the  distance,  and  Siam,  Korea,  the  Malay 
peoples,  and  the  rest,  count  for  nothing  at  all. 

There  is  only  one  man  in  the  East  who  can 
stand  up  to  the  Chinaman — the  Hindu,  and  he 
lacks  character.  These  two,  between  them,  will 
eat  up  the  smaller  peoples  and  stand  some  day 
face  to  face;  but  in  time  even  the  Hindu  will  go 
down  before  the  better  man.  I  do  not  speak  of 
war;  in  the  unchanging  East  these  things  are 
left  to  time.  The  Chinaman,  a  giant  among  men, 
is,  and  may  ever  be,  a  child  in  war;  he  is  so 
peace-loving  that  the  "Yellow  Peril,"  so  far  as 
he  is  concerned,  is  the  crudest  of  conceptions. 

The  Chinaman  was  civilised  while  we  dwelt 
in  forests.  He  had  evolved  religion,  philosophy, 
and  the  highest  conceptions  of  art  and  beauty 
while  we  yet  stained  ourselves  with  woad  and  pur- 
sued our  quarry  with  a  meat  axe.  To-day,  with 
our  blissful  ignorance  of  China,  we  call  the  peo- 
ple heathen,  and  send  a  swarm  of  missionaries  to 
preach  doctrines  that  our  ablest  men  have  already 
discarded.  These  men  preach  twenty  different 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  91 

creeds,  they  advocate  love,  peace,  longsuffering; 
but  let  so  much  as  one  missionary  be  killed  or 
injured,  and  the  clamour  for  compensation  and 
revenge,  backed  always  by  threats  of  armed  re- 
taliation, resounds  through  the  land.  The  China- 
man, highly  intelligent,  sees  the  irony  of  it  all. 
Our  various  creeds,  jealous,  narrow,  preaching  sal- 
vation through  twenty  channels,  bewilder  him. 
He  wants  none  of  our  religion;  he  has  told  us  so 
a  hundred  times. 

What  is  needed  in  China  is  the  doctor,  man 
or  woman,  who  will  live  among  the  people,  cure 
their  ills,  and  make  their  temporal  lot  happier. 
There  are,  I  am  glad  to  say,  many  of  this  type 
already  in  China,  and  they  are  doing  a  great  and 
noble  work ;  but  the  missionaries,  after  due  consid- 
eration, I  should  keep  out. 

The  regeneration  of  China,  along  the  lines  of 
Japan,  I  do  not  look  for  in  our  time.  By  "re- 
generation" I  mean  reorganization  of  govern- 
ment; for  the  Chinaman,  industrious,  honest, 
peaceful  as  to  the  great  majority,  is  not  in  serious 
need  of  regeneration.  But  good  government  is 
mainly  a  matter  of  sound  finance,  and  the  system 
of  corruption  in  Chinese  official  circles  will  pre- 
vent anything  like  sound  finance  for  a  long  time 
to  come.  Can  the  leopard  change  his  spots'?  Can 
the  Chinese  official — can  any  Eastern  official — 
look  at  the  money  question  as  many  of  us  do*?  If 


92  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

regeneration  keep  out  the  missionary,  if  it  keep 
out  the  European,  except  on  reciprocal  terms,  well 
and  good ;  but  a  civilized  China,  with  armies  and 
navies,  entering  into  the  hierarchy  of  the  "Great 
Powers,"  is  not  the  sort  of  China  that  appeals  to 
me. 

The  spirit  of  change  makes  headway  in  China, 
as  it  is  doing  in  all  lands,  but  along  Chinese  rather 
than  European  cleavage  lines.  There  are  think- 
ers who  fear  that  China,  equipped  on  an  industrial 
and  manufacturing  basis,  would  swamp  the  world 
with  cheap  goods.  I  do  not  hold  with  this;  but 
if  such  a  condition  does  come,  it  will  in  any  case 
come  slowly.  The  Chinaman  is  conceited;  he  will 
try  to  organize  and  run  these  industries  himself, 
and  he  will  fail.  The  biggest  new  industry  of 
China  might  be  in  steel,  for  the  coal  and  iron  de- 
posits in  the  interior  are  almost  limitless;  but  the 
menace  of  cheap  Chinese  steel,  produced  with  Chi- 
nese capital,  under  Chinese  organization,  will  not 
happen  in  our  time. 

The  Chinaman  as  an  agriculturist,  a  merchant, 
a  banker,  a  miner,  a  sailor — in  fact,  in  almost 
any  branch  of  life — is  a  success.  With  his 
shrewd,  humorous  face,  his  character,  and  his  per- 
sonality, one  is  bound  to  like  him ;  he  is  a  general 
favourite.  Of  all  Orientals  he  is  nearest  to  us. 
He,  like  us,  is  a  materialist,  whose  God  is  his 
belly,  and  where  other  Orientals  eat  to  live,  he 


"LIFE'S  LIQUOR"  93 

eats  for  the  relish  and  delight  of  eating.  The 
Chinaman  is  ubiquitous.  Turned  from  Australia, 
Java,  and  the  Pacific  Coast,  he  has  overrun  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  Borneo,  the  Malay  States,  and 
all  the  islands  of  the  Far  East.  He  is  slowly  ab- 
sorbing Siam;  he  swarms  in  Rangoon,  and  as  I 
rode  through  the  Shan  States,  his  mule  trains 
passed  me  bound  for  the  ruby  mines  at  Mogok. 
He  has  made  Hong-Kong  for  us,  and  the  Malay 
States.  Singapore  is  his  elysium;  he  drives  his 
brougham  there,  gambles  in  our  mining  shares,  sits 
on  our  town  councils,  and  watches  his  sons  play 
football  and  cricket. 

If  I  add  any  other  to  my  affinities,  let  it  be  the 
Zulus — a  black  and  a  minor  race,  yet  the  physical 
aristocrats  of  humanity,  and  as  cheerful,  kindly 
and  right  living  a  people  as  one  may  hope  to  see. 
Mentally,  the  Zulu  is  a  child;  yet  for  many  of 
these  men — labourers  on  farms,  wagon  drivers, 
house  servants,  or  quiet  dwellers  in  their  own 
kraals — I  have  the  sincerest  liking  and  respect. 
To  the  memory  of  N'Konjane  ("the  Swallow")' 
and  to  Shingaan,  a  kehle — or  head  of  a  family — 
who  came  every  year  from  the  thorn  country  to 
the  farm,  and  who,  after  many  years  of  faithful 
work,  at  last  came  not,  I  raise  my  hat. 

I  am  a  favoured  person  with  the  Kaffirs,  as,  in- 
deed, with  many  of  the  coloured  peoples.  They 


94.  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

see  that  I  like  them,  that  I  sympathize,  and,  just 
as  whites  do,  they  return  sympathy  fourfold.  But 
why  aren't  we  all  beloved  by  these  children? 
Why  isn't  every  white  man  a  god  in  their  eyes? 
Tactfully  handled,  the  subject  races  can  be 
moulded  as  wax,  for  good.  I  pray  my  dealings 
with  them  Ke  never  for  evil. 


CHAPTER  V 

WOMEN 

IN  a  market-place,  on  the  shores  of  Victoria 
Nyanza,  an  animated  crowd  of  women  bought  and 
sold;  it  was  market-day,  yet  some  hundreds  of 
women  wore  neither  bead  nor  fig-leaf. 

To  one  moving  in  good  feminine  society  much 
has  been  revealed,  a  few  inches  of  cloth,  indeed, 
being  neither  here  nor  there;  that  in  this  instance 
they  should  be  there,  not  here,  was  the  only  re- 
flection I  allowed  myself. 

These  women  of  Central  Africa,  who  go  thus 
naked  and  unashamed,  are  of  the  Kavirondo  tribe. 
They  rub  their  bodies  to  a  rich  polish  with  oil, 
which  under  an  equatorial  sun  gives  forth  a  sicken- 
ing stench;  with  small  skull,  and  retreating  fore- 
•head,  they  rank  low  in  the  African  scale. 

Riding  alone  in  the  Bolivian  Andes,  I  have 
passed  Indian  women  who  raised  their  hats — an 
uncanny  thing.  I  knew  these  women  to  be  primi- 
tive, filthy,  given  over  to  drunken  debauches,  yet 
the  idea  that  they  should  defer  to  a  man  was  not 
nice.  I  don't  want  hat-raising  or  curtsey  from 
the  lowest  woman  on  earth. « 

95 


96  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Not  so  with  the  black  man.  "In  this  part  of 
West  Africa,"  said  an  official,  "I  have  seen  prob- 
ably eighty  funerals  of  men  and  only  three  of 
women.  When  the  women  become  too  old  for 
the  last  offices,  those  of  carrying  wood  and  water, 
they  are  led  out  one  dark  night  into  the  forest, 
and  they  do  not  return"  A  gruesome  profession 
this  of  "leader  out"  to  the  village,  loathed  of 
incipient  beldams;  yet  once  in  a  life-time  we  may 
conceive  him  leading-out  with  a  relish,  and  his 
wife  next  day  going  into  deep  mourning. 

Those  Kavirondo  of  the  market-place,  like  the 
women  of  so  many  coloured  races,  were  perfect 
in  figure.  I  have  noticed  that  civilization  is  not 
kind  to  the  female  form.  The  well-cared-for 
woman  of  the  West  compresses  her  body  into  a 
corset,  her  feet  into  small  shoes ;  she  does  no  work, 
she  eats,  instinctively,  the  indigestible  foods.  In 
spite  of  all  she  sometimes  retains  a  figure,  but, 
such  is  the  cunning  of  the  corsetiere^  one  can  never 
be  certain. 

I  am,  I  hope,  loyal  to  the  women  of  my  tribe ; 
but  there  is  this  advantage  in  the  scantily  clad 
savage — her  husband  knows  what  he  is  getting. 
There  is  no  false  hair,  no  false  bust.  Hers  is  no 
"make-up"  figure.  She  "delivers  the  goods." 

In  many  of  the  uncivilized  races,  right  up  to 
the  high  castes  of  India,  the  young  women  under- 
take hard,  manual  toil,  and  carry  heavy  burdens 


WOMEN  97 

on  their  heads.  This,  with  open-air  life,  regular 
hours,  no  clothes  to  speak  of.  and  extreme  sim- 
plicity in  food,  usually  leads  to  physical  perfec- 
tion. Up  to  the  age  of  twenty-two,  these  women 
put  all  others,  physically,  in  the  shade.  After 
that,  what  with  climate,  environment,  and  lack 
of  stamina,  they  go  to  pieces,  and  the  women  of 
civilization,  buoyed  up  with  hope  and  whale-bone, 
come  into  their  kingdom. 

Evanescent  though  it  be,  there  is  real  beauty 
among  coloured  women.  The  most  perfect  female 
form  I  have  seen  was  a  Hindu  girl  in  Mauritius ; 
the  loveliest  face,  that  of  an  Arab  girl  of  Tunis, 
who  already,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  is  aestheti- 
cally dead.  There  is,  among  the  Arabs,  a  strain 
of  wondrous  beauty;  but,  as  with  all  Mahometans, 
the  women  live  in  complete  seclusion,  or  go  veiled 
from  the  eyes  of  men. 

The  women  of  India  are  comely  when  young, 
and  often  beautiful.  In  Kashmir,  where  the 
average  standard  is  low,  I  have  yet  seen,  here  and 
there,  the  most  beautiful  women  in  Asia.  These 
are  of  the  bold,  Romany  type,  finer  than  the  hand- 
somest gipsy  women  of  Hungary.  I  should  like 
to  match  these  picked  Kashmiris  with  the  hand- 
somest young  Jewesses  of  Odessa. 

For  comeliness  of  the  negro  type,  there  is  no 
one  to  compare  with  the  Zulu  girl.  South  of  the 
equator  she  is  the  native  belle.  Deep  brown  in 


98  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

colour,  her  head  is  large,  and  her  forehead  well 
developed.  She  has  perfect  teeth,  she  is  tall,  and 
her  figure  is  superb.  She  dresses  in  a  loin  cloth, 
or,  in  the  hot  weather,  in  a  little  arrangement  of 
beads,  but  is  never  entirely  nude.  Judged  on  her 
own  plane,  she  is  strikingly  handsome.  Later, 
her  tendency  is  towards  fatness.  Among  the  Zulu 
chiefs,  genuine  fatness  in  women  is  highly  valued ; 
I  even  imagine  "likely"  looking  girls  to  be  fed 
up,  with  the  idea  of  catching  a  chief's  eye. 
Among  the  wives  of  Cetewayo  were  women  who 
must  have  scaled  their  300  Ibs. 

The  almond-eyed  women  of  Asia,  judged  by 
our  standards,  are  not  beautiful.  As  to  figure, 
they  rarely  come  up  to  the  five-foot-five  a  tall  man 
finds  so  attractive,  and  many,  especially  among 
the  Japanese,  are  so  short  as  to  lose  aesthetic  sig- 
nificance. And  yet  these  types  of  women,  among 
whom  may  be  classed  Japanese,  Burmese,  Siamese, 
Javanese,  and  Malay,  are  quite  alluring.  They 
are  fastidiously  clean  and  dainty,  they  are  shapely 
little  creatures — what  one  may  call  well  appointed 
— they  take  their  calling,  as  women,  seriously, 
they  lay  themselves  out  by  instinct  to  attract,  and 
if  the  male  who  comes  along  is  white,  so  much  the 
better.  At  the  back  of  my  head  lies  the  idea  that 
these  almond-eyed  ones  take  love  lightly,  refusing 
their  caresses  to  no  man  with  a  purse;  yet  why 
carp  at  this  if  they  are  charming*? 


WOMEN  99 

The  women  of  China  are  downright  plain,  and 
because  of  their  distorted  feet  have  no  grace  of 
movement;  but  in  one  respect  they  are  above 
rubies.  They  are,  probably,  the  only  race  of 
coloured  women  who  are  not  attracted  by  the 
prestige  of  the  white  man,  and  who,  with  rare  ex- 
ceptions, will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 

With  hooked  noses — Armenian  rather  than 
Jewish — and  mostly  spectacled,  the  Parsee  women 
of  Bombay  are  the  plainest  in  the  East.  But  they 
are  "advanced"  women  beyond  all  in  the  East, 
educated,  and  highly  serious,  whose  interests  be- 
gin to  lie  outside  the  home. 

In  Europe,  too,  the  plainest  women — the  Finns 
— are  politically  the  most  advanced.  They  may 
do  whatever  they  please ;  they  may  even  be  mem- 
bers of  Parliament.  Anything  that  takes  plain 
races  of  women  from  their  homes  would  seem  to 
be  encouraged;  but  whether  this  be  mere  coinci- 
dence, or  something  profoundly  sinister,  would  be 
hard  to  determine. 

Among  the  white  women  of  civilization,  to 
whom,  think  you,  is  the  palm  to  be  given*? 

Here  is  a  typical  English  girl — good-looking, 
well-built,  caste-ridden  as  any  Brahmin,  mentally 
insipid. 

Beside  her  is  a  young  American,  paler  in  face, 
more  nervy  and  spirited — a  racer  beside  a  trot- 
ting mare.  Mentally  alert  and  more  of  a  com- 


100  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

panion,  she  is  nevertheless  spoilt,  and  takes  herself 
too  seriously. 

Here  is  a  Frenchwoman.  Not  so  handsome  as 
intelligent,  yet  exuding  feminity,  an  artiste  in  sex, 
and  the  charmer  of  man  par  excellence. 

Here  is  an  Austro-Hungarian — and  in  her  you 
find  beauty  and  passion  together.  Reckless  her 
love  may  be,  nomadic  oerhaps,  but  to  me  a  most 
alluring  creature. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  Balkans — in  Servia,  and 
little  Montenegro — beauty,  but,  withal,  discre- 
tion. 

Here  are  dark  Latin  women  of  the  South. 
Narrow  of  outlook,  priestridden,  splashed  with 
powder — they  do  not  charm.  For  me,  dark  eyes 
flash  behind  lattices  in  vain,  and  the  light  guitar 
twangeth  to  no  response. 

My  affinity  lies  in  the  Gothic  North;  Aus- 
trians,  Russians,  Germans,  and  Scandinavians 
are  the  women  of  my  dreams.  A  wintry  land- 
scape, with  a  fairish  woman  in  her  furs,  is  civil- 
ization's masterpiece. 

Who  is  this?  So  blond,  so  physically  fine,  so 
entirely  neat,  in  her  face  intelligence — and  a 
trace  of  the  devil!  She  is  a  Swede,  and  the 
woman  whom  we  have  sought.  By  a  short  head 
she  bears  the  palm  from  the  Austrians.  Step  for- 
ward, Froken,  and  deign  to  accept  this  chaplet! 


WOMEN  101 

With  women,  as  indeed  with  man,  flattery  is 
still  the  trump  card.  It  need  not  be  gross ;  as  her 
status  rises  the  trowel  may  be  discarded  for  the 
camel's  hair,  but  the  surest  method  of  attack  is 
always  going  to  be  through  her  vanity.  This  is 
sound  reasoning,  for  her  instinct,  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  her  life,  is  to  please;  nature's  doing  this, 
yet  recognized  by  man  as  a  strong  weapon  to  his 
own  ends. 

But  the  world  is  obsessed  by  this  adulation  of 
the  woman.  If  one  picks  up  a  novel  it  is  written 
round  incidents  of  romantic  love  and  marriage. 
If  one  goes  to  a  play  there  is  more  love  and 
marriage;  everywhere  you  find  the  female  inter- 
est pandered  to,  until  at  last  this  orgy  of  senti- 
mentalism  begins  to  pall.  And  the  world  goes 
further.  Praising  not  only  admitted  virtues — 
self-denial,  the  brave  facing  of  drudgery,  sym- 
pathy, pity — it  ascribes  to  her  exceptional  intel- 
lect and  high  ethical  status,  qualities  the  average 
woman  does  not  possess.  In  novels  and  plays 
women  are  not  only  beautiful,  but  often  creatures 
of  depth  and  subtlety,  twisting  strong  men  round 
their  fingers.  In  real  life  one  does  not  see  these 
things;  when  strong  men  are  twisted,  they  are 
twisted  through  their  senses,  not  by  the  woman's 
brains. 

And  so  with  ethics.  On  the  stage  you  will  hear 
a  woman  say,  "Reginald,  rather  than  think  you 


102  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

guilty  of  dishonour  I  would  see  you  dead  at  my 
feet."  (Loud  applause.)  But  in  real  life  the 
female  code  of  honour  is  not  highly  developed. 
A  badly  dressed  Reginald  would  cause  her  a  far 
acuter  grief. 

There  is  a  fish  in  Australian  waters,  the  bar- 
racouta,  that  is  baited  with  a  red  rag.  You  will 
find  a  red  rag,  too,  the  deadliest  bait  for  women, 
for  it  is  glamour — what  Scripture  calls  the  "lust 
of  the  eye" — as  much  as  their  vaunted  intuition 
which  sways  them.  Women  worship  appearance. 
Tremendous  value  is  attached  to  symbols;  and 
caste,  titles,  precedence,  uniforms,  fine  clothes, 
jewels,  coats  of  arms,  elegant  carriages  and  cock- 
ades— red  rags  all — are  the  baits  at  which  they 
rise. 

The  worship  of  the  military  caste  by  woman 
also  has  its  psychologic  explanation.  She  notes 
the  uniform;  and  even  as  the  brilliant  tail  of  the 
peacock  attracts  to  it  the  hen,  so  do  the  clothes 
of  soldiers  draw  the  eyes  of  women.  The  soldier 
is  of  good  physique,  smart  and  erect,  and  above 
all  is  held  to  be  brave.  That  hits  the  female  in 
a  vital  spot,  for  instinct  makes  her  seek  a  pro- 
tector, and  who  shall  protect  like  a  brave  man? 
Here  again,  with  the  woman,  appearance  is  every- 
thing. In  real  life  the  barrister,  the  chemist's 
assistant,  the  under  gardener,  is  as  brave  as  the 
soldier,  and  possibly  cleverer;  but  he  doesn't  look 


WOMEN  103 

it,  he  isn't  so  erect,  he  has  neither  uniform  nor 
medals,  so  her  eye  passes  him  over.  The  military 
caste  lives  in  the  light  of  woman's  eyes,  withdraw 
that  light,  and  soldiering  would  become  unpopu- 
lar, the  supply  of  officers  fall  short,  conscription 
itself  be  barely  tolerated,  and  organized  war  even 
come  to  an  end.  Woman's  influence,  therefore, 
for  or  against  war,  is  a  prime  factor. 

It  is  here  we  note  that  interesting  product, 
the  American  woman;  I  play  her  at  this  point, 
my  strongest  card.  Generations  of  republican 
training  have  left  her — a  woman;  lover  of  glam- 
our, aristocrat  at  heart,  she  worships  appearance; 
for  titles,  caste  and  precedence  she  will  sell  half 
her  soul. 

Sexual  cold-bloodedness  in  women  is  no  rare 
thing.  That  the  American  woman  should  pass 
over  her  physically  fine  countryman,  for  a  man 
on  the  average  physically  inferior,  but  surrounded 
by  the  glamour  of  title  and  precedence,  is  hardly 
noteworthy;  but  that  she  should  pass  over  a  man 
who  puts  her  on  a  pedestal,  for  one  who  treats 
her  with  a  lesser  consideration,  is  of  psychologic 
interest.  The  woman's  instinct  is  to  look  up  to 
the  man,  not  down;  when  her  own  men  resume 
the  position  Nature  intended,  she  will  come  to 
value  them  more. 

Meanwhile,  the  sight  of  hundreds  of  staunch 
republican  females  buying  themselves  titles  is  not 


104  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

without  humour.  It  is  not  without  significance; 
just  how  many  more  would  do  the  same,  given 
the  chance,  is  a  relevant  subject  for  inquiry. 

American  women,  by  and  large,  are  losing  re- 
spect for  their  men.  This  seems  to  be  nation- 
wide, and  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  fact  in, 
all  human  relations.  And  the  reason  for  it  is 
unreal.  The  men  are  forceful  and  virile,  they 
originate;  yet  they  delight  in  proclaiming  in- 
feriority, in  grovelling,  as  it  were,  before  the 
weaker  sex,  and  the  women  are  taking  them  at 
their  own  valuation. 

If  Americans  but  knew  it,  they  do  their  women 
an  infinite  wrong.  In  her  heart,  the  true  woman 
craves  a  mate  stronger  than  herself,  and  nothing 
in  this  wide  world  can  ever  mean  to  her  more.  A 
strong  man  is  more  to  her  than  dollars  poured  in 
her  lap,  than  living  her  own  life,  than  all  those 
absurd  social  activities.  But  when  the  strong 
man  comes  not,  only  men  who  proclaim  them- 
selves weak,  her  heart  begins  to  atrophy. 

It  has  been  quaintly  said  that  woman  is  the 
last  animal  man  will  tame.  I  certainly  believe 
her  to  live  in  a  world  of  her  own,  and  feel  sure 
her  mentality  and  man's  progress  along  parallel 
lines  and  are  never  destined  to  meet.  The  man 
is  much  to  the  woman,  but  not  for  his  mentality; 
an  observant  man  knows  how  hard — how  nearly 


WOMEN  105 

impossible — it  is  to  rivet  a  woman  by  his  brains. 
His  world  is  not  hers,  nor  does  it  greatly  interest 
her.  He  may  talk  well  and  forcibly,  he  may  ring 
the  changes  on  money-making,  politics,  travel, 
science,  or  art;  he  may  draw  polite  attention  or 
rapt  gaze;  but  there  is  a  something  he  cannot 
rivet,  an  impish  inner-woman,  whose  mind  is  fly- 
ing from  his  moustache  to  the  timbre  of  his  voice, 
the  colour  of  his  eyes,  the  dresses  of  other  women, 
the  colour  of  their  eyes,  and  to  a  thousand  futile 
nothings — the  very  negation  of  intellect;  and  he 
will  learn  in  time  that  there  is  one  chord,  and  one 
only,  that  he  must  strike — SEX — if  he  would  cap- 
ture and  hold  her  elusive  soul. 

Weakness  of  the  judicial  function  is  strongly 
marked  in  women;  they  may  talk  well,  but  they 
seldom  argue  well,  and  rarely  take  advice.  In 
my  experience  I  have  hardly  known  a  woman, 
against  her  inclination,  to  be  convinced  by  rea- 
soning; and  it  may  be  laid  down  (as  interesting 
rather  than  sinister)  that  the  sex  is  not  open  to 
this  form  of  intercourse. 

There  are  three  subjects  about  which  one  can 
talk — people,  things,  ideas — and  the  student  of 
woman  (I  speak  always  of  the  average  woman) 
will  note  that  it  is  the  first  and  least  intellect- 
ual of  these  subjects — people — that  she  mostly 
choses.  One  may  go  further,  and  lay  down  that 
two  women  speaking  together  will  discuss  a  third. 


106  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

To  prove  this,  let  the  student  walk  in  some  popu- 
lous thoroughfare  and  listen — not  vulgarly,  but 
in  the  interest  of  psychology — to  all  pairs  of 
females  as  they  pass.  If  they  are  of  the  upper 
classes,  "So  she  said  to  me,"  are  the  words  he  is 
most  likely  to  hear;  if  of  the  lower,  "Says  she  to 
me,"  will  be  wafted  to  him, 

"For  the  Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady 
Are  sisters  under  their  skins." 

This  tendency  of  women,  to  discuss  other  people 
and  brood  over  their  affairs,  in  preference  to 
entering  more  fully  into  the  great  world  of  inter- 
esting things  and  sublime  ideas,  is  deplorable. 
There  is  a  quality  of  earthiness  in  the  woman's 
mind;  contrasted  with  her  delicacy  of  face  and 
form,  it  is  one  of  the  inscrutable  things  in  nature. 

Woman  is  lacking  in  proportion.  To  man, 
her  standard  of  values  is  philistine,  her  serious- 
ness over  non-essentials  a  source  of  wonder.  Tra- 
dition and  dogma  flow  in  her  blood;  she  has  put 
herself  under  priest  or  medicine-man  of  some  sort 
since  the  world  began. 

Of  all  things  woman  hates  the  abstract;  her 
world  is  on  the  surface.  Here,  taken  at  random, 
is  a  stout  lady  in  black  silk,  moving  in  the  very 
best  society.  Do  you  think,  for  one  moment, 
that  she  ponders  the  mystery  of  things,  regards 
herself  as  other  than  fixed  and  ultimate?  A  pup- 


WOMEN  107 

-pet  on  strings!  A  phantom  built  of  electrons! 
A  shadow  in  a  shadow-show!  Impious  man! 
Impertinent  and  ridiculous  scoffer!  She  dines 
with  the  Bishop  to-night! 

Spiritualism,  a  result  of  indiscriminate  educa- 
tion on  half-baked  minds,  fed,  too,  by  the  hysteria 
which  is  in  us  all,  is  becoming  rampant;  but 
mostly  women  are  drawn  into  the  vortex.  Women 
often  tell  you  they  commune  with  the  dead,  or 
live  in  the  world  of  the  occult,  and  probably  those 
of  the  sex  who  are  normal  in  outlook  are  now  in 
the  minority.  There  may,  or  may  not  be  a  spirit- 
world  :  intellectual  minds  look  on  the  problem  as 
not  knowable;  but  what  we  do  see  is  a  number  of 
men,  and  a  horde  of  women,  accepting  it  on  most 
ludicrous  evidence. 

The  most  interesting  phase  in  all  this  trend  is 
the  spread  of  Christian  Science — by  a  woman. 
Mrs.  Eddy  held  no  patent  for  healing  through  the 
mind.  She  annexed  it  from  a  man-practitioner, 
who,  in  his  turn,  was  using  a  healing  force  known 
for  thousands  of  years.  There  is  no  doubt  she 
took  herself  seriously;  she  was  already  self-hypno- 
tized ;  and  that  is  the  precise  condition  into  which 
her  followers  fall,  who  now  number  several  mil- 
lions. Self -hypnotism,  auto-suggestion,  is  the 
key  to  Christian  Science,  the  one  mental  condition 
in  which  it  can  flourish;  in  the  cold  light  of  rea- 
son and  intellect  the  fabric  fades  away. 


108  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Mrs.  Eddy,  who  had  no  education  to  speak  of, 
wrote  a  bible.  She  named  it  "Science  and 
Health."  I  have  tried  to  understand  this  book, 
to  read  a  meaning  into  it,  even  as  Mark  Twain 
tried,  but  upon  my  honour  it  left  me  dazed  and 
uncomprehending.  The  recurring  theme  of  it, 
like  a  motiv  in  a  Wagner  opera,  is  that  there  is 
nothing  but  mind,  that  the  material  world  we 
know,  in  the  last  analysis,  does  not  exist,  and  that 
the  All-Mind,  which  only  exists,  is  God.  I,  who 
see  this  world  as  a  Shadow  Show,  shall  not  deny 
its  immateriality;  but  I  don't  let  my  reason  run 
wild  outside  accepted  Science.  My  reading  of 
the  riddle  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Eddy's  as  shown  in 
that  fantastic  book,  are  as  the  poles  asunder. 

Well,  Mrs.  Eddy  died;  and  although  nothing 
mattered  or  existed  except  mind,  she  left  two  mil- 
lion dollars.  She  had  made  big  money  selling 
her  bible;  which  each  follower  was  expected  to 
possess.  I  believe  the  cheapest  edition  of  Mrs. 
Eddy's  bible  costs  three  dollars.  A  more  stylish 
edition,  which  the  sellers  "feature,"  costs  five 
dollars.  It  is  called  a  "Key  to  the  Scripture," 
yet  the  Scriptures,  in  the  shape  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, may  be  bought  anywhere  for  a  few  cents. 
As  the  chief  healer  commercialised  Christian 
Science,  so  did  her  followers.  There  grew  up  a 
number  of  journeymen  Scientists,  mostly  women, 
who  took  up  mind-healing  as  a  business.  They 


WOMEN  109 

will  treat  you  at  your  home,  or  concentrate  on 
you  at  a  distance,  for  cash  down;  and  they  do 
well  at  it.  A  novel  idea,  this  treatment  at  a  dis- 
tance. You  are  in  the  Waldorf-Astoria,  let  us 
say,  with  a  diseased  mind,  and  you  call  up  a 
journeyman  Scientist  to  concentrate  on  you  from 
the  Bronx.  She  may  be  genuine;  she  may  not. 
You  take  pot  luck,  as  it  were ;  you  are  souled  and 
healed — at  one  dollar  fifty  an  hour. 

Mrs.  Eddy  has  a  rival.  Another  woman  has 
done  well  out  of  her  own  creed.  Living  in  a 
great  house  outside  Madras,  Mrs.  Besant,  the 
high-priestess  of  Theosophy,  is  spending  the  eve- 
ning of  her  days.  Her  followers  surround  her 
not  only  with  mystic  rapture,  but  with  great 
worldly  comfort,  and  most  evenings  you  will  see 
her  taking  the  air  in  a  superb  Rolls-Royce. 

Understand  me.  If  men  and  women  down  in 
their  hearts  are  straight  they  may  be  Christian 
Scientists,  Theosophists,  anything  they  please.  It 
is  this  commercialising  of  religion  that  I  think  so 
damnable ;  there  is  no  record  of  Jesus  Christ  using 
a  cheque  book,  or  of  Buddha  placing  a  lakh  of 
rupees  on  fixed  deposit. 

If  you  would  reconcile  widely  differing  opin- 
ions about  women,  go  to  the  man  of  the  world. 
He  knows.  He  has  dealt  more  intimately  with 
women  in  his  time  than  ever  did  Schopenhauer 


110  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

or  Nietzsche,  who  denounced  the  sex,  or  than  that 
wishy-washy  class  of  men  who  laud  women  to 
about  the  eighth  place  of  decimals.  He  will  tell 
you  that  there  are  two  opinions  about  women,  be- 
cause there  are  two  sorts  of  men  to  hold  them. 

You  will  see  two  men  standing  together.  One 
is  a  man  who  dominates  women,  who  attracts 
them  instantly,  into  whose  arms,  in  his  time, 
dozens  of  women  have  flung  themselves  in  love 
and  abandonment.  The  other,  perhaps  taller  and 
finer  looking,  and  as  likely  as  not  a  more  moral 
and  scrupulous  person,  instinctively  repels  the 
opposite  sex.  Outwardly  he  stands  there  the 
sexual  equal  of  the  other.  Yet  no  female  glances 
are  shot  at  him,  no  woman  desires  him  in  her 
heart,  none  has  ever  thought  of  him  in  the  long 
watches  of  the  night. 

How  can  these  two  men  hold  the  same  views 
about  women*?  The  first  man  knows.  A  hundred 
women  have  opened  their  souls  to  him.  He  can 
read  most  of  them  like  a  book. 

But  the  good,  tall  man  does  not  know.  In  his 
eyes  women  are  for  ever  unknowable,  mysterious, 
creatures  of  a  finer  clay.  The  magnetic  man  de- 
fers to  women;  but  he  cringes  to  them — even  in 
his  thoughts  he  cringes — and  so  they  think  of  him 
as  of  a  docile  dog. 

The  two  types  will  persist  forever.  Woman — 
deeply  human  woman — will  put  up  the  eternal 


WOMEN  111 

bluff,  which  the  first  man  will  reject,  and  the 
second  will  fall  to;  the  first  man  will  be  bidden 
into  the  parlour  of  life,  the  second  will  sit  and 
lick  his  chops  in  the  antechamber. 

The  man  of  forty,  who  has  seen  much  of  the 
world,  has  learned  a  deal  about  women.  First 
of  all,  he  finds  it  no  drawback  in  women's  eyes 
to  be  forty.  He  thinks  more  of  them  than  when 
he  was  twenty-five,  and  is  surprised  to  find  women 
think  more  of  him.  He  now  appreciates  them 
fully,  He  knows  too  the  worldly  value  of  stand- 
ing well  in  their  estimation,  and  how  easy  this  is 
to  achieve.  It  is  the  small  attentions  to  women, 
the  tiniest  courtesies,  which  yield  the  richest  re- 
turn. 

On  the  more  intimate  side,  he  has  learned 
things  about  women  which  are  never  given  out 
from  pulpits.  The  church's  idea  that  they  are 
shrinking  lilies,  forever  seeking  safety  from  man's 
desire,  is  seen  to  be  false.  They  have  desires  of 
their  own,  and  often  don't  hestitate  to  show  them. 
In  the  real  world,  as  opposed  to  the  conventional, 
world,  women  seeks  her  mate  just  as  man  does. 
She  has  quite  a  clear  idea  which  man  she  wants, 
and  is  able  in  the  cunningest  ways  to  bring  the 
fact  to  his  notice. 

On  the  whole,  in  our  Western  world,  it  is  the 
woman  who  makes  the  advances,  and  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  unborn  it  is  right  that  this  should 


118  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

be.  The  man  of  forty,  by  this  time  gauging 
woman's  reliance  on  her  instincts,  should  never 
force  his  attentions.  If  he  pleases,  she  will  show, 
him  so  unmistakably.  If  he  does  not — it  is  waste 
of  time  to  think  about  her.  This  is  what  young 
men  never  know. 

The  established  relations  of  the  sexes  will,  I 
believe,  continue  through  all  woman's  emancipa- 
tion. Man  is  man,  and  is  meant  to  be  strong. 
Woman  is  woman,  and  remains  weak.  No  true 
woman  chafes  at  her  weakness — mental  or  other- 
wise. Her  instinct  is  to  seek  out  the  very  strength 
she  lacks — to  look  up,  to  lean ;  in  the  virility  of  a 
fitting  mate  she  has  been  destined  by  nature  to 
find  all  her  heart's  desire.  Weakness,  inability  to 
dominate  her,  is  man's  cardinal  sin  in  a  woman's 
eyes;  the  weak  men  of  the  world,  and  they  are 
not  a  few,  are  woman's  real  tragedy. 

Woman  strives  for  mastery,  and  is  unhappy 
when  it  comes.  She  knows  it  is  not  her  destiny. 
I  will  hold,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  the  happy 
woman  to  be  she  who  can  look  up  to  and  respect 
the  man,  and  the  ineffective  man  he  to  whom  no 
woman  looks  up.  There  is  just  one  way  with  a 
woman.  Carry  her  in  your  arms,  physically  or 
mentally,  and  she  is  yours;  but  God  help  you  if 
you  can  do  neither. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GLIMPSES    OF    THE    EAST 

IN  this,  our  Shadow-Show,  there  is  a  land 
whose  glamour  has  never  faded,  where  men  still 
walk  as  in  a  dream;  it  is  a  land  where  pipes  are 
playing  and  distant  drums  throb ;  where  the  shut- 
ters have  ears;  where  crows  cry  at  the  dawn,  the 
water-wheel  creaks  through  the  long  day,  and 
crickets  sing  the  weary  to  sleep;  where  shadows 
pass  in  the  breathless  nights,  and  the  dead  are 
carried  forth  at  noon. 

Jama  Masjid,  the  great  mosque,  lies  sweltering 
in  the  heat.  In  its  minaret,  high  over  Delhi,  I 
have  sat  alone  these  two  hours.  Spread  out  below 
me  rests  the  imperial  city,  white,  flat-roofed, 
crowded  with  life:  the  very  heart  and  spirit  of 
India. 

Down  from  the  mosque  a  stately  flight  of  steps 
leads  to  a  commonage;  cross  this,  and  you  are  at 
the  palace  gates.  Built  in  their  not-to-be-mis- 
taken red  sandstone,  this  is  the  old  citadel  of  the 
Moguls.  Below  its  ramparts  the  Jumna  runs, 
bounding  the  city  on  this  side;  beyond  the  river, 

"3 


114  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

north  and  east,  are  the  crop-laden  plains  of  Oudh 
and  the  Punjab. 

Note  well  these  palace  ramparts  of  Delhi;  they 
have  seen  the  making  of  history.  They  have  seen 
strange  things — marble  floors  splashed  with  blood, 
impious  hands  dragging  at  a  peacock  throne — 
and  what  do  they  not  know  of  intrigue,  of  im- 
perial caprice,  of  whispered  words  to  the  eunuchs, 
of  moonless  nights,  and  of  erstwhile  gunny-bags, 
bulging  with  their  loads,  sent  hurtling  into  the 
muddy  waters. 

Beyond  the  city  walls,  towards  the  south,  the 
vista  is  of  rolling,  untilled  country,  ruins,  old 
tombs,  and  mosques.  Two  miles  out  stands  the 
citadel  of  Firoz,  builder  of  an  earlier  Delhi. 
Those  farther  ruins,  this  being  no  city  of  yester- 
day, mark  her  site  a  thousand  years  ago.  That 
stately  dome,  rising  in  the  distance  among  lesser 
domes,  is  the  tomb  of  Humayun,  father  of  great 
Akbar.  Thither,  after  the  siege  in  1857,  fled  the 
young  princes  of  Delhi,  the  nuclei,  the  rally- 
points  of  the  Mogul  tradition.  Here  Hodson, 
riding  out  with  a  patrol,  took  them  captive,  and 
by  the  roadside,  fearing  a  rescue,  shot  them  down 
with  his  own  hand;  this  in  the  presence  of  many 
natives. 

Poor  Hodson !  there  are  flabby  people  who  call 
him  murderer.  When  omelettes  shall  be  made 
without  breaking  eggs,  we  may  essay  to  run  our 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  115 

Empire  in  kid  gloves;  till  then,  his  act  must  be 
written  down  as  strong  and  far-sighted. 

That  tower  on  the  ridge,  beyond  the  city,  is 
the  Mutiny  Memorial — a  hideous  thing,  degrad- 
ing to  good  taste.  And  in  India — at  Delhi  of 
all  places!  Look  south,  you  British  philistines! 
Against  the  horizon  stands  Kutub  Minar;  yet 
in  presence  of  architectural  majesty,  you  have 
dared  assert  the  style  of  your  provincial  town 
halls.  Or  come  with  me  to  Rajputana;  mount 
this  ancient  elephant,  and  let  us  ascend  the 
heights  of  Chitoor.  In  broad  daylight  I  shall 
show  you  a  Tower  of  Victory  such  as  your  dreams 
never  imagined. 

It  is  now  past  midday,  and  a  Friday.  The 
mosque  is  filling.  As  they  enter  the  great  court- 
yard, the  Faithful  repair  to  the  central  tank  foe 
ablution;  this  ended,  with  turban  and  sandals 
adjusted,  they  press  forward  towards  the  canopy. 
After  one  o'clock,  when  the  multitude  is  on  its 
knees,  the  chanting  of  the  ulema  is  heard,  and 
shouts  of  "Allah !"  rise  from  a  thousand  throats. 
The  sun  beats  fiercely  down,  but  in  God's  fresh 
air  the  worshippers  heed  not ;  in  serried  rows  they 
sway  to  and  fro,  their  foreheads  press  the  flags. 

In  the  Mahometan  world  of  old,  when  religion 
absorbed  men's  lives,  holiness,  actual  or  reputed, 
stood  for  power  and  social  prestige ;  it  was  a  com- 
modity, a  great  asset. 


116  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

And  as  asset,  what  trade  in  it  did  they  drive*? 
Were  these  old  saints  innately  virtuous,  or  did 
the  ablest  men  of  the  time  ply  saintship  as  a 
profession^  When  a  family  could  specialize  in 
holiness  for  generations,  for  centuries,  and  be- 
come, withal,  great  and  powerful,  the  more 
worldly  or  professional  view  of  saintship  would 
seem  established. 

Here,  in  India,  flourished  for  centuries  the 
Chishti  family  of  saints,  rising  to  fame  not  only 
in  their  own  line,  but  as  lawgivers  and  the  friends 
of  kings ;  their  graves  cover  India. 

Dying  in  1324,  Nixam-ud-din  Aulia,  of  the 
Chishtis,  lies  amid  that  congeries  of  royal  tombs 
to  the  south  of  Delhi,  a  still  venerated  grave, 
while  the  princely  sleepers  around  him  are  for- 
gotten. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  later  the  Sheikh 
Salim  Chrishti,  grandson  of  the  saint  Farid-ud- 
din,  dwelt,  a  hermit,  in  a  cave  some  twenty  miles 
from  Agra.  For  love  and  veneration  of  this  man 
— this  professional  saint,  if  our  diagnosis  be  cor- 
rect— the  great  Akbar  built  around  his  cave  a 
city,  and  dwelt  there.  And  this  famous  city  of 
red  sandstone,  with  its  carved  palaces,  was  Fateh- 
pur  Sikri. 

But  this  was  misplaced  zeal,  which  Akbar  lived 
to  repent.  Here  was  a  city  wanting  water;  but 
there  was  no  water,  and  the  saint  could  cause  no 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  117 

gushing  from  the  rock.  On  the  head  of  drought 
there  came  pestilence,  then,  saint  or  no  saint,  the 
city  was  doomed. 

So,  on  a  morning,  the  Emperor  and  his  court 
returned  to  Agra,  and  a  beauteous  and  brand  new 
town  was  turned  over  to  the  jackals.  Deserted 
it  stood,  as  it  stands  to-day,  in  splendid  silence. 
Time  has  dealt  gently  with  Fatehpur  Sikri.  Akbar 
departed  over  three  hundred  years  ago,  yet  lay 
on  water,  and  Maple's  would  give  you  entrance 
within  the  week.  No  cave  is  now  to  be  seen,  but 
in  the  courtyard  of  the  great  mosque,  behind 
carved  screens  of  marble,  rests  the  shrine  of  Sheikh 
Salim.  To  this  shrine  many  pilgrims  repair. 
Childless  women,  Mahometan  and  Hindu,  seek  it 
out,  interceding,  in  the  words  of  our  rubric,  for 
a  "happy  issue"  out  of  all  their  afflictions. 

The  grandson  of  Sheikh  Salim,  it  is  written, 
became  Governor  of  Bengal;  but  no  later  saints 
are  reported  in  the  Chishti  annals.  The  family's 
prestige,  and  its  specialied  faculty,  would  not 
seem  to  have  survived  the  disaster  of  Fatehpur 
Sikri. 

What  of  the  Hindu  world  of  India — those  two 
hundred  millions — those  Brahmins,  Rajputs, 
Vaisyas,  Sikhs,  Jains,  and  Mahrattas,  whose  tem- 
ples and  palaces  cover  the  land?  What  indeed  is 


118  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Hinduism;  can  one  man  of  these  millions  tell? 
A  religion1?  A  fetish? 

In  the  beginning,  Brahma  sat  on  his  throne — 
the  Permeating  Essence,  the  All-Pervading  in 
Nature — a  fine  conception,  to  be  worshipped  in 
singleness  of  heart.  Then  some  metaphysician, 
some  Hindu  Athanasius,  pondered,  and  behold! 
the  Trinity — Brahma,  Vishnu,  Shiva  (yet  not 
three  Brahmas,  but  one  Brahma) — an  entity  for 
evermore. 

Ensued  the  gradual  decay,  the  running  to  seed, 
of  Brahmanism.  On  the  back  of  the  god,  as  time 
went  on,  a  whole  mythology  came  into  being. 
Vishnu  they  credited  with  nine  incarnations — as 
a  tortoise,  a  bear,  a  dwarf;  while  the  quaint  vatic- 
inations of  the  god-beasts,  the  elusive  and  indeli- 
cate manifestations  of  Shiva,  the  vagaries  of 
Saraswati,  wife  of  Brahma,  astride  her  peacock, 
and  a  hundred  other  fantastic  myths,  show  to 
what  depths  the  conception  of  the  Divine  Essence 
gradually  sank. 

To-day,  in  the  temples  of  Hindustan,  the 
Brahmin  caste  babbles  to  images,  and  before  pot- 
bellied idols  the  millions  fall  prostrate.  From 
the  recesses  of  the  priests  wicked  faces  look  out, 
and  the  air  is  heavy  with  a  feeling  of  corruption. 
In  the  great  temples  of  Trichinopoly  garlanded 
cows  moved  to  and  fro;  in  the  fanatic  eyes  of  the 
priests  I  read  myself  inferior  to  these  ruminants. 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  119 

In  another  temple  monkeys  surrounded  me;  fat- 
tened on  the  tenets  of  Hanuman,  they  longed  for 
the  order  to  tear  me  in  pieces. 

But  nothing  is  all  bad;  there  is  a  human  side 
even  to  Hinduism.  Animal  life  is  venerated,  the 
mild-tempered  Jain  stepping  aside  to  oblige  even 
an  ant.  The  bodies  of  the  dead  are  burned  (I 
have  watched  the  fires  flare  by  night  at  Benares), 
and  the  ashes  scattered  to  the  winds  or  consigned 
to  the  sacred  river.  There  is  no  slow  festering 
of  the  dead  in  the  ground,  no  choosing  of  leaden 
coffins  by  old  ladies,  to  whom  the  resurrection 
looms  more  physical  than  mystic,  no  dropping  of 
morsels  from  the  gorged  throats  of  vultures,  as 
at  Bombay.  The  burial  rites  of  the  Hindu  must 
indeed  become  our  own. 

And  to  Hinduism  we  owe  a  great  architecture. 
Each  cycle  furnished  its  masterpieces — the  rock 
caves,  with  their  rich  and  original  figuring,  the 
great  Dravidian  temples  in  the  south,  the  temples 
of  Mysore,  Gwalior,  fortess  of  the  Mahrattas, 
Amber,  and  the  palaces  of  Rajputana,  and  golden- 
templed  Amritsar,  of  the  Sikhs.  Lastly,  note  the 
small  sect  of  Jains,  building  at  Chitoor  that  tower 
aforesaid,  and  at  Abu,  in  the  hills,  a  temple  of 
white  marble  whose  glory  will  never  die.  I 
thought  to  write  down  the  Jains  as  the  Wesleyans 
of  Hinduism,  for  in  each  is  seen  a  revolt  against 
sacerdotalism,  a  return  to  simpler  forms.  But 


120  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

when  I  saw  Chitoor  and  Abu,  comparison  was 
dead.  To  liken  these  princes  of  architecture  to 
the  men  who  can  design  Methodist  chapels  must 
be  forever  impossible. 

Over  the  desert  from  Abu  a  camel  track  leads 
to  Udaipur,  most  picturesque  spot  in  India.  This 
city  lives,  surely,  to  glorify  one  man.  The  gay 
turbaned  throng  seem  there  but  to  yield  him 
revenue.  The  narrow  streets  clear  as  his  elephant 
train  makes  for  the  royal  stables.  His  vast  palace 
and  its  gardens  blot  out  the  landscape.  Behind 
the  grated  windows  of  its  harem  dwell  the  loveli- 
est women  in  the  land,  and  on  its  fairy-like  lake 
none  but  his  rowers  may  ply  to  and  from  the 
pavilioned  islands.  All  is  his! 

"Less  than  the  dust  beneath  thy  chariot-wheel," 
I  sang  out,  as  might  sing,  on  the  house-tops  of 
this  city,  some  love-sick  maid,  some  Rajput  Lady 
of  Shalott.  "Less  than  the  dust  .  .  ."  With  its 
escort  of  horsemen  the  chariot  itself  flashed  by, 
and  presently,  at  the  palace  gates,  the  retainers 
bowed  them  to  the  ground. 

This  black- whiskered  bejewelled  prince,  Ma- 
harajah of  Udaipur,  has  the  bluest  blood  in  India 
to-day,  a  strain  from  the  old  Kings  of  Oudh.  In 
olden  times,  I  have  been  told,  another  prince  of 
Rajputana,  great  of  birth  and  prestige,  was  as 
the  sun  of  Udaipur's  moon.  This  Sun,  impover- 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST 

ished,  and  casting  about  him  for  some  lakhs,  came 
to  Udaipur's  palace,  where  that  chief  did  him 
honour,  and  when,  lying  on  their  divans,  the  Sun 
graciously  offered  his  water-pipe,  Udaipur's  satis- 
faction was  not  to  be  hid. 

After  some  time  they  met  again.  When  the 
salaams  had  been  spoken,  Udaipur  said,  "Mahara- 
jah, wilt  thou  now  repay  me  those  lakhs  ?"  Then 
slowly  the  Sun  raised  his  eyes,  "Repay  thee  lakhs ! 
Didst  thou  not  draw  at  my  hookah*?" 

The  Maharajah  of  Udaipur  bowed  his  head. 

Chains  of  white  mountains  encompass  Kash- 
mir. Their  peaks,  pure  but  sterile,  merge  under 
the  line  of  perpetual  snow  into  fir  forests.  Below 
these  are  the  barren  uplands,  and  so  we  descend 
to  that  strip  of  eighty  miles  by  twenty,  the  valley 
itself.  Through  this  valley,  rising  at  the  Tibetan 
end,  meanders  the  Jehlum  River,  with  its  lakes 
and  waterways.  Green  meadows,  stretching  mile 
upon  mile,  line  the  banks.  That  row  of  poplars 
denotes  some  boundary.  Here  is  a  village  with 
its  orchards.  Sheep  are  feeding  on  the  meadows, 
and  a  flock  of  geese  pushes  off  into  mid-stream. 

Is  this  Kashmir?  It  might  be  Northern  France, 
and  those  sheep  potential  pre  sales.  It  might  be 
Holland. 

But  the  sun  is  setting,  and  under  an  apple- 
tree  on  the  grass  white  figures  kneel,  their  faces 


122  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Meccawards.  It  is  Central  Asia  after  all ;  tonight 
Allah,  Answerer  of  Prayer,  will  hold  Kashmir  in 
His  keeping. 

This  is  mid-April,  spring-time,  and  though  the 
rain  may  fall,  the  sap  is  fast  rising.  The  grass 
is  emerald  green,  and  the  poplars  and  planes 
burst  from  bud  to  leaf  in  a  night.  Wild  flowers 
will  bloom  later  on  the  hill-side,  but  a  red-and- 
white  crocus  is  coming  up,  and  where  meadows 
verge  on  the  swamps  beds  of  iris  are  blooming. 
The  many  orchards  are  in  flower — white  and 
pink;  and  when,  of  a  sudden,  you  catch  almond 
blossom  against  the  distant  snows,  you  have 
caught  the  spirit  of  this  spring. 

Tugged  by  four  swarthy  fellows,  and  preced- 
ing the  mat-shaded  doonga  of  the  domestics,  the 
little  houseboat  came  in  due  time  to  Srinagar. 
Punting  up  the  main  highway  of  this  straggling, 
dilapidated  city,  we  passed  the  palace  of  the  Ma- 
harajah, and  drew  into  the  shady  Chenar  Bagh. 

From  open  windows,  as  we  passed,  the  keen 
eyes  of  curio  merchants  had  summed  us  up,  and 
now,  laden  with  wares,  their  canoes  were  con- 
verging from  all  points.  Set  out  on  our  decks 
were  embroideries,  damascenes,  and  carvings,  such 
as  only  Kashmir  can  show,  silver  wares  of  Tibetan 
pattern,  reliquaries  from  beyond  the  mountains, 
matrix  turquoise  from  Ladakh  and  Persia,  old 
tapestry  of  Bokhara — the  presentment  in  excelsis 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  123 

of  the  curio.  Lying  there  in  the  Chenar  Bagh, 
those  astute  Kashmiri  salesmen  marked  me  as 
their  prey,  and  I  fell  horribly. 

On  a  day,  the  houseboat  lying  thus  moored, 
there  happened  the  festival  of  Moy  Shareef,  a 
personage  in  the  Sunni  or  Orthodox  hierarchy. 
This  was  held  at  the  Mosque  of  Hazart  Bal,  on 
the  shores  of  the  Dal  lake,  a  league  from  Srinagar. 
The  mosque,  reputed  to  contain  a  hair  from  the 
Prophet's  beard,  was  of  Kashmiri  type — a  bastard 
pagoda;  red  tulips,  blossoming  on  the  grass-grown 
roof,  relieved  its  dull  lines. 

Outside  the  edifice  a  vast  crowd  waited.  At 
three  in  the  afternoon  the  service  culminated,  and 
some  eighty  thousand  of  the  Faithful,  their  vigil 
over,  spread  through  adjacent  orchards  and  under 
the  old  chenar-trees  that  here  line  the  lake  shore. 
A  multitude,  taking  to  boats  of  every  description, 
put  out  on  the  lake. 

As  our  canoe  threaded  its  way  among  a  thou- 
stand  craft,  I  saw  that  many  who  sat  therein  were 
drinking  tea.  Others  listened  to  the  distant  music 
of  pipes,  while  boatloads  of  professional  singers, 
moving  through  the  crowd,  gave  delight  to  those 
who  listened.  Here  and  there,  with  eyes  intent 
on  some  wealthy  merchant,  courtesans  reclined  on 
cushioned  barges.  They  were  very  beautiful  in- 
deed. Shades  of  Fadladeen !  and  of  Moy  Shareef, 
shades !  This  was  no  place  for  rich  elderly  men. 


124?  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

As  the  day  waned  our  rowers  brought  us  past 
the  Shalimar  to  Nishat  Bagh,  on  the  further  shore, 
the  garden  pleasaunce  of  some  old  king.  In  the 
gloaming  we  passed  the  floating  gardens  of  the 
Dal,  bright  with  beds  of  mustard  and  with  fruit 
blossom,  and  in  the  darkness  were  rowed  into  the 
city. 

All  that  night  crowded  boats  from  the  lake 
passed  down  the  Chenar  Bagh,  and  to  me,  lying 
abed  in  the  houseboat,  came  fragments  of  music 
and  song  and  laughter.  It  was  festival  night  in 
the  Happy  Valley. 

Sailing  south  from  Bombay,  some  hundreds  of 
miles,  the  traveller  will  come  to  Goa  of  the  Portu- 
guese, and  its  small  town  of  Panjim. 

This  futile  little  place,  exporting  coco-nuts, 
with  a  side-line  in  cabin  stewards,  has  a  history. 
Four  hundred  years  ago  Portugal  took  it.  By 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  was  a  city 
of  200,000  souls,  the  richest  in  India.  Great 
merchants  owned  its  warehouses.  Great  men 
walked  its  streets;  Albuquerque  and  Vasco  da 
Gama  were  among  its  viceroys,  Camoens  knew 
it,  he  who  was  to  become  St.  Francis  Xavier  lived 
here.  Goa  was  early  a  famous  headquarters  of  the 
Jesuits;  from  their  college  missionaries  set  forth 
for  Malacca,  for  China,  for  Paraguay.  As  a  re- 
ligious centre  Goa's  fame  kept  growing;  it  became 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  125 

the  see  of  an  archbishop,  and  convents  of  the 
Dominicans  and  the  Carmelites  were  built.  In 
1560  the  Inquisition  was  set  up,  and  the  proces- 
sions for  the  autos-da-fe  were  seen  daily.  For  the 
good  of  their  souls,  eleven  thousand  were  put  to 
death  in  this  corner  of  India. 

Ravaged  by  pestilence,  by  raids  from  the  in- 
terior, and  by  the  attacks  of  the  Dutch,  the  glory 
of  Goa  faded  as  it  had  come.  To-day  the  city 
does  not  even  exist.  Coco-nut  groves  cover  the 
ruins  of  its  streets,  and  where  the  palace  of  the 
Inquisition  had  stood  native  children  were  play- 
ing tipcat.  Still  standing,  well  cared  for,  are  some 
half-dozen  fine  old  churches;  these,  with  a  con- 
vent, and  the  dwellings  of  the  clergy,  are  all  that 
remain  of  Old  Goa. 

In  the  church  of  "The  Good  Jesus,"  in  richly 
wrought  silver  coffin,  rests  the  embalmed  body  of 
St.  Francis  Xavier.  It  is  the  glory  of  Goa,  and 
is  exposed  to  view  perhaps  once  in  a  decade,  at 
some  high  religious  festival.  At  a  certain  ex- 
posure, among  a  crowd  of  devotees,  a  Portuguese 
countess  pressed  forward,  and  in  the  act  of  devo- 
tion bit  off  the  saint's  toe.  Thinking  to  escape 
with  the  relic  in  her  mouth,  she  rose  from  her 
knees,  but  keen  eyes  had  observed  the  act;  as  a 
priestly  hand  closed  on  her  gullet,  the  oesophagus 
disgorged  its  trophy. 

Another  relic  of  Portugal  in  the  East  is  the 


126  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

island  of  Magao.  This  little  spot,  south  of  Hong- 
Kong,  just  clear  of  the  mainland,  is  perhaps  two 
miles  long.  In  a  garden  of  Magao,  three  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago,  a  Government  official  sat  each 
afternoon  writing,  and  one  day  appeared — the 
"Lusiad."  Thus  did  Camoens,  Shakespeare  of 
Portugal,  bring  fame  to  Magao.  I  sat  in  the  old 
garden,  with  its  high  walls,  one  evening  as  the  day 
faded.  The  bust  of  the  poet  peered  at  me  through 
the  bloom. 

To-day,  Chinese  have  overrun  the  island ;  smug- 
glers and  opium-runners  make  it  their  headquar- 
ters. It  is  a  gambling  centre,  thither  resorting 
wealthy  Chinamen  from  Hong-Kong,  Canton,  and 
Amoy,  and  one  may  spend  a  night  round  the 
tables,  travelling  from  house  to  house.  The  game 
played  is  fan-tan,  and  the  stakes  of  foreigners, 
who  sit  in  upper  chambers  looking  down  on  the 
tables,  are  raised  and  lowered  in  tiny  baskets.  As 
these  baskets  of  Mexican  dollars  went  up  and 
down,  I  thought  of  that  biblical  lowering  of  a 
basket,  from  the  walls  of  Jericho,  and  cast  my 
eyes  around  for  prototype  of  her  who  had  low- 
ered it. 

It  is  daybreak  on  the  Shan  Hills — that  lonely 
stretch  of  country  on  the  outer  fringe  of  Burma 
— daybreak,  and  a  white  man  steps  from  his  tent. 
The  huts  of  a  Kuchin  village  cluster  round  him. 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  127 

Outside  these,  in  the  grey  dawn,  stand  muscular 
young  women  at  the  hulling  of  rice;  little  hissing 
sounds  come  from  them  as  the  wooden  pestles 
strike  truly  home.  Old  hags,  too,  weeders  of  the 
grain  and  pumpkin  patches,  are  moving  afield,  but 
one  and  all,  old  and  young,  are  hugely  goitrous, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  are  turned  sadly 
away. 

The  village  lies  on  a  mountain  slope,  at  4,000 
feet,  and  now,  in  the  broad  daylight,  there  unfolds 
a  panorama  of  half  the  Shan  States.  What  a 
forest!  When  the  mists  rise  from  the  valleys  it 
will  be  seen  stretching  to  China. 

To  this  mountain,  which  they  called  the  "Ele- 
phant's Neck,"  Chinese  had  come  in  days  gone 
by,  to  work  silver  ores.  Here,  and  at  Baudwen, 
thirty  miles  to  the  south,  they  set  up  little  mining 
republics,  built  smelters,  cleared  the  forest  for 
charcoal  and  prospered  for  many  years.  Old 
legends  speak  of  the  "great  silver  mines  between 
Pekin  and  Mandalay,"  but  as  to  the  date  of  their 
greatness,  who  shall  guess?  Baudwen  must  be 
two  hundred  years  old;  it  may  be  five  hundred 
years.  Stone  dragons,  crouching  before  its  ruined 
temple,  when  adjured  to  state  their  age,  vouch- 
safed no  clue. 

Mo  Ho  Tchwang,  the  "Elephant's  Neck,"  was 
wrapped  in  mystery  yet  more  dense.  Tradition, 
among  the  scattered  villages,  placed  the  departure 


128  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

of  the  last  Chinese  about  1840;  but  what  they  had 
worked,  what  left  behind,  was  hidden  by  the 
dense  undergrowth. 

Hence,  for  solution  of  these  things,  came  this 
white  man — these  two  men — climbing  to  the  vil- 
lage with  pack  mules,  twelve  jungle  cutters,  a 
tent,  and  no  little  enthusiasm. 

What  they  sought  they  found ;  but  those  tracks 
hewn  through  the  bamboos,  those  lead  slags  lying 
on  the  mountain-side,  those  old  mine  workings, 
unsafe  for  penetration — these  things  are  pigeon- 
holed in  London  offices,  and  concern  this  story  not 
at  all. 

The  hamlet  of  Weng  Pat,  on  the  further  side 
of  the  mountain,  lay  stricken  with  malaria.  One 
midday,  as  the  two  men  passed  from  the  country, 
they  rested  under  its  great  tree,  while  word  of 
the  bitter  white  drug  they  carried  passed  from 
house  to  house.  A  deputation  met  them  under 
the  tree;  it  was  gratified  when  a  small  stock  of 
quinine,  with  instructions  for  use,  was  placed  in 
the  poongye's  hands. 

This  courtesy  to  Buddhism,  in  the  person  of  a 
fever-stricken  old  priest,  met  its  reward.  Two 
nights  later,  drenched,  their  mules  astray,  the 
travellers  reached  a  village.  "White  guests," 
cried  its  headman;  "where  should  they  sleep  but 
in  our  little  temple?"  So  in  a  trice  they  lay, 
naked  and  dry,  on  its  clean  floor;  and  later,  when 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  129 

the  mules  came  in,  mattresses  were  stretched  on 
the  very  platform  beside  the  gods.  In  the  watches 
of  that  night  he  who  writes  awoke.  Resting  on 
him,  luminous  in  the  darkness,  was  the  divine 
gaze  of  the  Buddha. 

As  our  little  caravan  passed  from  hill  to  hill 
we  sickened  of  malaria — we,  our  Chinese  drivers, 
our  Indian  servants,  our  very  mules.  There  came 
a  night,  on  the  China  frontier,  when  I  lay  in  a 
hut  and — waited.  About  nine,  my  companion  laid 
the  thermometer  under  my  tongue;  it  said  106° — 
rising  fast !  He  forced  some  sweetish  liquid  into 
my  mouth;  his  voice  was  a  mile  away,  but  I  heard 
him  saying,  "You  must  keep  this  down'''  I 
thought  I  might  be  dying  .  .  .  but  thirty-six 
seemed  too  young  .  .  .  then  it  was  broad  day- 
light, and  my  temperature  down  to  95°.  I  tested 
my  vitality  that  day  by  walking  twenty  miles. 
It  held,  and  for  three  days  more;  it  carried  us 
down  to  the  plains,  and  into  Bhamo. 

Lying  then  at  ease  on  the  deck  of  a  river 
steamer,  I  sailed  for  a  week  down  the  Irrawadi 
— down  past  the  wooded  defiles,  where  monkeys 
peered  from  the  high  crags;  past  Sagaing,  with 
its  tombs  of  the  old  dynasty;  past  Mandalay,  city 
of  the  lotus,  with  the  cloistered  Arrakan  and  the 
palace  of  deposed  Thebaw;  past  the  thousand- 
year-old  ruins  of  Pagan ;  down  into  Lower  Burma, 
where  multitudes  were  at  work  in  the  paddy- 


130  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

fields ;  past  Prome,  and  finally  to  the  city  of  Ran- 
goon, where  Shwe  Dagon  towers — the  Golden 
Pagoda.  Standing  at  its  base,  on  a  night  of  high 
festival,  I  saw  that  blaze  of  colour  and  of  gaud 
that  the  Orient  itself  can  nowhere  match. 

There  are  calm,  stately  townships  near  the 
equator.  White-clad  Europeans  traverse  their 
shady  allees,  and  the  air  is  of  old-world  repose. 
There  is  closure  of  shop  and  office  at  midday,  the 
gorging  of  the  reistafel,  slumber  through  long 
tropic  afternoons,  a  harnessing  of  mincing  pony 
stallions,  and  the  driving  out  of  stout  couples  to- 
ward eventide. 

This  is  Java  under  the  Dutch — Java,  shady  and 
beautiful,  where  the  mild-tempered  native  gives 
no  trouble,  hard  work  is  barely  known,  and  life 
passes  sleepily  and  easily. 

Yet  the  Dutch  know  their  business.  A  climatic 
lethargy  grips  them,  but  there  is  no  slovenliness. 
Their  government  is  sound,  contenting  the  abori- 
gines, their  railways  progressive,  their  hotels  ex- 
cellent, their  houses  spacious  and  graceful;  the 
lawns  of  Haarlem  and  Utrecht  are  not  more  trim 
than  their  gardens. 

The  Dutch  have  made  a  real  success  in  Java. 
Finding  an  island  rich  and  apt,  they  have  fash- 
ioned a  first-rate  colony.  The  soil  is  of  the  best, 
and  the  contours  set  no  limit  to  irrigation.  Water 
in  never-failing  supply  makes  their  task  easy,  and 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  131 

Java  the  last  word  in  tropical  culture.  The 
Javanese,  swarming,  yet  adaptable,  and  very 
cleanly,  are  the  happiest  of  the  world's  peoples. 

To  the  Anglo-Indian,  Java  must  carry  the  les- 
son of  content.  Here  is  no  feverish  hastening  on 
European  leave,  no  eternal  girding  at  the  heat,  no 
undue  cursing  of  natives,  no  God-damning  of  the 
condition  of  things.  The  Dutchman,  more  or  less, 
goes  to  Java  for  life;  he  settles  down,  builds  a 
graceful  house,  lays  out  a  charming  garden — his 
children  are  taught  to  call  it  home. 

In  often  taking  to  wife  a  woman  of  the  country 
he  errs;  not  in  himself  perhaps,  but  towards  the 
children  who  come  after.  This  crossing  of  the 
strain  is  not  a  matter  of  bulbs,  not  a  hybridizing 
of  tulips — it  is  a  mistake,  the  blot  on  Java.  Yet 
the  large  half-caste  population  lives  seemingly 
under  no  social  ban.  At  school  the  children  mix; 
when  the  band  plays  the  eyes  of  white  maidens 
ogle  dusky  youths;  at  the  social  clubs  the  castes 
come  together  with  no  undue  reserve. 

Take  note  of  thees  things,  Eurasians  of  India! 
You,  Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries,  and  that 
family  we  know,  take  note!  There  is  sanctuary 
in  Java  for  sallow  complexions. 

And  these  Dutch  women  of  the  true  blood — 
how  robust  their  outline !  What  a  genuine  plump- 
ness! Yet — are  the  men  of  Holland  blind  to  the 
finer  shades?  The  "fault  of  the  Dutch"  has  long 


132  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

been  notorious;  their  liking  for  "too  much"  would 
seem  to  have  evolved  the  fattest  women  in  Chris- 
tendom. 

In  the  interior  of  the  island  are  sights  not  to 
be  overlooked.  There  is  Buitenzorg,  among  the 
wooded  hills,  world-famed  for  beauty,  and  Soeka- 
boemi,  the  Cheltenham  of  Java.  Here,  on  cool 
uplands,  dwell  retired  Dutchmen  of  leisure,  civil 
servants  on  their  pensions,  and  well-to-do  half- 
castes.  Their  gardens  are  a  delight  to  the  eye. 
From  the  upland  town  of  Garoet  I  drove  through 
the  tilled  rice-fields,  through  groves  of  bamboo 
and  coco-nut,  to  Lake  Bagendit,  and  stood  there 
enraptured.  The  air  was  fresh  and  cool  after 
heavy  rain,  a  zephyr  whispered  on  the  water,  the 
mist  was  lifting  from  green  forests  and  from 
mountains ;  on  the  horizon  a  volcano  smoked. 

An  orchestra  of  young  musicians,  with  instru- 
ments of  bamboo,  had  approached  unseen,  and 
was  squatted ;  the  peace  of  God  descended  on  me 
to  a  minor  repetitive. 

In  the  gloaming  I  left  Bagendit,  bestowing  on 
the  musicians  a  largesse  of  one  guelder;  the  bam- 
boos throbbed  a  furious  farewell. 

The  Javanese  in  religion  are  mildly  Mahom- 
etan. In  art  they  are  as  children.  Digest  these 
facts;  then  travel,  as  I  did,  to  Djockja,  and  view 
strange  ruins,  Buddhist  and  Hindu,  gigantic,  of 
the  first  order  in  architecture  and  sculpture.  These 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  133 

are  surely  Indian  in  origin,  the  outcome  of  colossal 
religious  propaganda;  their  date  would  seem  to 
go  back  a  thousand  years. 

One  may  picture  these  remote  events :  the  com- 
ing of  the  princes  and  priests  from  Hindustan,  the 
fine  frenzy  of  the  proselytes,  the  conceptions  tak- 
ing form,  the  voyaging  to  and  fro  of  architects,  of 
stonemasons,  the  steady  rising  of  the  fanes,  pre- 
dictions, by  many,  of  the  golden  age  of  Java;  great 
events  these,  in  their  day,  pregnant,  nevertheless, 
with  the  mutability  that  is  in  all  things. 

What  of  our  own  great  affairs  a  thousand  years 
hence — massacres  of  Jews,  of  Christians,  encycli- 
cals of  an  infallible  Papacy,  Welsh  revivals, 
Eucharist  congresses,  the  consistency  of  a  wafer, 
the  cut  of  a  reredos,  the  passing  over  of  neurotic 
spinsters  to  Rome1?  Verily,  these  things  will  show 
in  truer  perspective. 

To-day  these  great  Indian  ruins  of  Java  stand 
desolate  among  rice-fields.  Buddhist  and  Hindu 
are  there  extinct  as  the  dodo. 

"In  the  red  bamboo  forest,  down  by  the  shrine 
of  the  goddess  Kwannon.  ..." 

I  sat  in  His  Majesty's  Theatre,  in  London,  and 
watched  the  "Darling  of  the  Gods."  Night  after 
night,  from  that  strange  cry  in  the  prologue,  until 
the  death  chant  of  the  Samurai  by  the  forest 


134  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

shrine,  the  sights  and  sounds  of  this  play  thrilled 
me.  In  truth,  they  sent  me  to  Japan. 

On  the  morning  appointed,  with  Honolulu 
twelve  days  astern,  a  high  coast-line  rose  from 
out  the  sea — bleak  hills,  sparely  crested  with  firs ; 
five  hours  later  we  steamed  into  Yokohama  Bay, 
and  I  set  foot  in  Japan.  It  was  early  April  and 
the  cherry-trees  in  fullest  bloom.  There  were  hun- 
dreds of  these  trees;  for  joy  I  could  have  knelt  to 
them. 

That  afternoon,  taking  train,  I  went  down  the 
peninsula  to  Kamakura.  A  rickshaw  drew  me 
thence  to  where,  in  a  grove  of  the  flowering  cher- 
ries, his  eyes  closed  in  fathomless  contemplation, 
sits  that  great  figure  of  the  Buddha. 

Before  him  I  stood,  lost  in  long  reverie.  What 
repose  lay  in  those  eyelids!  What  wisdom  in 
that  brain !  How  many  centuries  had  rolled  over 
him!  And  that  this  profound  personality  should 
be  a  bronze  casting — it  was  unthinkable ! 

I  crossed,  and  stood  on  the  rising  ground  among 
foliage.  Beyond  this  grove  were  orchards  and 
gardens;  an  old  temple  stood  on  a  hill,  firs,  bent 
and  fantastic  with  age,  outlined  its  horizon.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  spring.  Near  me  a  red  camellia 
drew  the  eye  to  its  thousand  blossoms.  A  cloud 
passed  from  the  sun,  and  the  white  mass  of  cher- 
ries began  to  sparkle.  Under  this  canopy  of 
bloom,  divinely  suffered  by  the  Daibutsu,  a  hun- 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  135 

dred  children  played  happily.  Down  the  valley 
there  was  a  glimpse  of  the  seashore. 

.  .  .  That  hour  at  Kamakura  will  always  be 
mine,  for  I  had  grasped  a  country's  soul.  I  had 
gone  forward.  Yesterday  I  had  been — what?  A 
bridge-player  on  the  Pacific.  Yesterday ! — ere  my 
train  reached  Yokohama  that  evening  I  had  been 
in  Japan  a  hundred  years. 

Journeying  to  Tokio,  I  lived  at  a  native  inn, 
and  so  passed,  by  hill  and  dale,  over  much  of 
Japan.  I  saw  those  things  that  had  fired  the 
imagination — the  "red  bamboo  forest,"  "the 
shrine  of  the  goddess  Kwannon,"  "the  Bay  of 
Monkeys  by  the  Inland  Sea."  I  viewed  Fuji- 
yama from  Lake  Hakone,  fed  the  deer  at  Nara 
and  on  the  sacred  island  of  Myajima,  walked  in 
the  cryptomeria  forest  at  Nikko,  and  in  blinding 
rain  reached  the  hill-tops  above  Ikao.  I  saw  the 
camellia,  the  cherry,  the  wild  azalea,  and  the  iris 
bloom.  I  lived  through  days,  through  weeks,  of 
heavy  rain,  without  which  there  had  been  no  glory 
of  tree  and  flower,  no  vivid  freshness  of  early 
morning. 

The  Japan  of  these  things — of  forests  and  blos- 
soms and  running  water — does  not  fail  one.  There 
the  idea  is  safe.  But  this  is  no  land  of  glamour, 
no  India.  Over-population  is  driving  this  people 
with  a  goad.  With  poverty  ever  near,  their  dili- 
gence excels  that  of  all  others.  Every  foot  of  their 


136  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

fields — every  shoot — is  tended  by  hand.  To 
fertilize,  they  use  liquid  manure,  and  from  each 
house  by  the  rice-land  comes  the  stench  of  a  cess- 
pool. This  is  nasty,  but  in  the  way  of  nature. 
The  advance  to  a  materialism,  to  the  slavery  we 
call  "manufacturing,"  is  a  worse  thing  by  far. 
The  smoke-stacks  of  Tokio  and  Osaka  keep  rising ; 
the  ugly  commercial  era  has  dawned  that  is  to 
drive  out  beauty  and  joy. 

A  coolie,  a  factory  hand — for  what  will  he 
count  in  this  new  Japan?  As  I  pondered  these 
things  a  coal-mine  of  the  great  Mitsui  family  was 
flooded.  Not  knowing,  I  came  to  that  island  in  Na- 
gasaki harbour,  and  would  have  descended.  "You 
cannot  go  to-day,"  said  one  in  authority;  "a  hun- 
dred of  the  drowned  have  not  been  recovered." 

Listen!  At  night,  in  a  lull  of  the  rain,  there 
is  a  tapping  along  the  empty  streets.  It  is  a 
blind  masseur,  recommending  himself  to  the  peo- 
ple. Poor  devil!  Ushered  to  the  door  of  my 
room,  how  humbly  he  crawls  forward;  and  yet 
cheerful  withal,  a  master  of  his  craft.  A  yen  is 
not  wasted  here,  if  his  poor  face  but  lights  to  its 
touch.  Ama  San!  what  with  your  crawling  in, 
and  your  crawling  out,  my  eyes  are  wet. 

The  scene  changes,  but  not  the  note.  This  is 
Canton,  greatest  city  of  China.  Within  its  walls 
is  uttermost  congestion  of  human  beings;  pushed 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  137 

into  the  very  river,  a  quarter  of  a  million  dwell 
in  boats.  Its  streets  are  alley-ways,  where  no  sun 
enters;  they  exude  filth,  yet  in  their  fetid  air  a 
multitude  lives  and  moves.  Here  is  a  prison  yard ; 
it,  even,  is  crowded  to  the  gates;  to-morrow  the 
headsman  relieves  the  pressure,  but  it  will  only  be 
for  a  few  hours.  In  this  warm,  moist  clime 
humanity  spawn  riotously,  wriggles  its  day,  and 
dies.  What  is  its  t~le  to  date"?  I  know  not;  but 
around  the  city,  over  hill  and  dale,  the  graves 
extend  for  seven  miles. 

Wherefore,  then,  O  God,  this  monstrous  spawn- 
ing? Wherefore  this  fecundity  of  female  Can- 
tonese? For  how  many  of  these  millions,  of  the 
millions  yet  to  be  born,  will  filth,  hunger,  and 
crime,  disease,  and  misery  be  the  certain  lot? 

The  traveller,  returning  to  Hong-Kong,  cried 
a  truce  to  these  vital  speculations;  he  surrendered 
to  the  eating  of  young  ginger.  Satiated,  we  next 
see  him  sailing  up  the  Yangtse,  six  hundred  miles, 
to  Hankow.  There,  taking  note  of  its  million 
people,  of  its  Chicago-like  location,  of  much  coal 
and  iron  in  the  hinterland,  of  the  converging  upon 
it  of  the  railways,  he  made  prediction.  With  clear 
eyes  he  saw  this  city  a  century  hence;  he  saw  it 
a  world-centre,  the  commercial  pivot  of  all  the 
East.  Hankow  is  indeed  a  city  to  be  watched. 

In  the  harvest-time  he  crossed  the  plains  of 
Honan.  The  grain  was  bounteous,  and  as  the 


138  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

villagers  cut  and  stacked  they  sang  and  made 
merry.  At  the  inn  of  some  small  town  the  land- 
lord, his  family  and  his  domestics  would  crowd 
smiling  round  such  unwonted  guest,  thinking  to 
please  his  palate  by  the  presentment  of  nauseous 
titbits.  And  this,  readers  of  "Yellow  Peril"  lit- 
erature, is  a  lonely  Chinese  inn  of  the  interior! 
Indigestion,  certainly,  but  not  death  nor  danger 
lurked  within  its  walls. 

One  day  an  event  occurred  still  notable  in  local 
annals,  namely,  the  scattering  of  "cash"  to  the 
children  of  the  village.  Of  these  trivial  coins 
some  forty  go  to  the  penny,  and  it  is  here  recorded 
that  the  foreigner  appeared  at  the  place  of  scat- 
tering carrying  thirty  thousand.  As  the  handfuls 
were  thrown,  and  ere  they  reached  the  earth,  four- 
score children,  delirious  with  joy,  closed  on  them. 
For  an  hour  the  air  was  black  with  copper  spray, 
and  there  was  dust  and  flying  pigtails,  joy,  strug- 
gling, and  excitement,  such  as  come  together  once 
in  a  lifetime.  At  a  certain  stake  two  aged  beggars 
of  the  village  entered  the  melee.  They  were  car- 
ried out  presently,  bruised  and  bleeding,  whimper- 
ing, their  wits  gone;  their  begging-bowls  lay  in 
atoms ;  grasped  in  their  skinny  fingers  was  the  sum 
of  nearly  three  farthings. 

The  small  steamer  of  a  Chinaman,  running 
from  Chefoo,  used  to  cross  the  Gulf  of  Pechili 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  139 

nightly.  At  daybreak  one  morning,  after  such 
crossing,  I  stepped  from  her  cabin.  I  was  swathed 
to  the  eyes,  for  it  was  mid-winter,  but  the  sky  was 
clear,  there  was  no  wind,  the  sea  was  as  glass. 

A  mile  ahead  lay  the  entrance  to  Port  Arthur. 
This  unique  opening  looked  to  be  little  more  than 
a  hundred  yards  wide,  a  mere  slit  in  the  range 
of  hills  fronting  the  coast.  Over  the  crest  of  these 
hills  muzzles  of  big  guns  pointed,  and  the  figures 
of  a  sentry  or  two,  some  flags,  and  a  semaphore, 
showed  against  the  skyline.  In  the  offing,  on  the 
glassy  sea,  rode  half  a  dozen  Russian  warships; 
as  we  steamed  through  the  channel,  and  passed 
to  the  inner  harbour,  fifteen  in  all  were  to  be 
counted. 

This  basin  among  the  hills  was  bleak  and  ugly. 
On  the  right  lay  the  naval  dockyard,  the  strag- 
gling Chinese  town,  the  lines  of  barracks.  On 
the  left,  some  two  miles  distant,  lay  the  unfinished 
Russian  town;  on  the  rise  above  stood  a  half-built 
cathedral. 

The  place  bristled  with  soldiers;  whole  bat- 
talions were  drilling  on  the  heights.  The  narrow 
streets  of  the  eld  town  were  blocked  with  trans- 
port trains.  As  usual,  Chinese  were  doing  the, 
hard  work.  Fur-clad,  these  adaptable  creatures 
had  already  acquired  Russian,  and  were  now  being 
roundly  abused  in  that  tongue.  They  coaxed 
frightened  mules,  set  up  overturned  sleighs,  shifted 


140  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

masses  of  metal  and  timber,  and  did  the  general 
dirty  work  of  Port  Arthur  that  day,  whilst  some 
dozens  of  Russian  officers,  a  young  Scotsman,  and 
an  indeterminable  riff-raff  looked  casually  on. 

Round  the  palace  of  Alexieff,  Russian  Vice- 
roy, was  great  coming  and  going  of  military,  with 
the  war  rumours  fiercer  than  ever.  Japan,  threat- 
ening for  years,  Japan  just  over  the  straits  there, 
was  surely  on  the  eve  of  action  at  last.  It  was 
touch  and  go. 

That  evening,  at  an  eating-house,  I  heard  the 
situation  had  taken  a  turn,  that  the  outlook  was 
better;  the  naval  officers  were  on  shore,  too,  where 
they  had  not  been  for  a  week. 

But  in  the  night  sinister  news  must  have  come 
through.  When  morning  dawned  the  fleet  seemed 
all  drawn  to  the  inner  harbour;  the  funnels  were 
belching  out  dense  black  smoke,  the  decks  were 
cleared  for  action.  As  my  train  steamed  out  for 
the  North  the  sky  was  overcast,  the  town  and 
harbour  hidden  in  smoke.  I  thought  it  at  the 
time  an  augury  of  evil.  I  was  not  wrong;  two 
weeks  later  four  of  those  warships  had  been 
pierced  by  torpedoes,  and  the  investment  of  Port 
Arthur  had  begun. 

I  passed  on  to  Dalny,  where  Russia  spent  those, 
millions  on  a  commercial  port  for  the  Siberian 
Railway;  then  to  Harbin,  in  the  heart  of  Man- 
churia. Harbin,  central  point  in  a  food-producing 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST 

area,  will  have  a  future.  Several  big  flour-mills 
had  even  then  been  erected,  and  ice-bound  in  the 
Sungari,  lay  a  small  fleet  of  river  steamers.  As  I 
stood  at  the  confines  of  the  town  a  cart  approached 
over  the  snow-covered  plain.  This  was  guided  by 
two  Chinamen,  drawn  by  a  superb  mule,  and  piled 
high  with  dead  pheasants.  There  must  have  been 
four  hundred.  It  was  borne  to  the  mind  that 
Manchuria  is  this  bird's  home;  but  the  "how"  and 
the  "whence"  of  this  fine  bag  lay  behind  two 
inscrutable  physiognomies. 

At  Vladivostok  the  political  news  was  vague, 
but  there  was  again  notable  congestion  of  mili- 
tary. Four  cruisers  lay  frozen  hard  in  the  harbour ; 
the  contortions,  in  their  interests,  of  a  powerful 
ice-breaker  enlivened  the  Sabbath  afternoon. 

Four  hundred  miles  north  of  Vladivostok, 
joined  thereto  by  rail,  is  Khabarovsk.  This  Cos- 
sack town  and  strong  military  outpost  owes  its 
being  to  Amursky,  he  who  seized  for  Russia  her 
trans-Baikal  Empire.  On  a  cliff  he  stands  there, 
hewn  in  stone,  gazing  down  the  great  river  which 
gave  him  his  name. 

A  two-horsed  sledge  drew  out  from  Khabarovsk 
at  a  gallop,  and  passed  up  the  frozen  Amur.  A 
journey  of  2,200  miles  stretched  before  it — a 
journey  that  was  to  last  nineteen  long  days  and 
nights. 

Lying  in  hay,  under  a  felt  blanket,  I  staved  off 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  great  cold,  while  felt  boots  that  came  above 
the  knee,  furs  that  covered  body,  head  and  ears, 
and  thick  fingerless  gloves,  gave  real  immunity. 
There  was  food,  too,  on  board;  white  chunks  of 
ice,  that  I  knew  for  milk,  brown  chunks,  denot- 
ing soup,  a  sack  of  bread,  and  some  dozens  of 
roasted  rebchicks.  Brick-tea  and  cakes  had  not 
been  forgotten. 

At  twilight  after  a  three  hours'  gallop,  a  cluster 
of  huts  come  into  view.  This  is  a  Cossack  settle- 
ment and  posting  station.  Driver  and  shaggy 
Tartar  ponies  are  changed,  the  modest  tariff  is 
paid,  the  sledge  takes  again  to  the  river  and  to 
the  darkness.  At  the  next  station,  reached  towards 
nine  o'clock,  supper  is  decided  on.  A  peasant, 
taking  up  a  hatchet,  retires  with  the  soup  to  an 
inner  chamber,  and  presently  there  emerges  a 
steaming  tschi.  Then  once  more  into  the  starry 
night. 

By  morning  the  seventh  stage  has  been  reached. 
Khabarovsk  lies  eighty  miles  behind.  The  ice  is 
rough,  at  times  heaped  up  and  impassable;  the 
sledge,  seeking  a  clear  way,  diverges  to  right  and 
left,  now  into  Siberia,  now  Manchuria. 

So  we  travelled,  for  five  days  and  nights,  nor 
did  I  close  my  eyes.  On  the  sixth  day  a  sleepless 
wreck,  I  came  to  the  town  of  Blagoveschensk.  A 
guest  in  the  house  of  her  richest  man,  I  ascended 
to  my  room  and  slept  heavily. 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  143 

To  me,  having  slumbered  six  hours,  entered  an 
awakening  handmaiden.  She  bore  a  tumbler  of 
Roederer.  The  Governor-General  of  the  Amur 
Territory  was  supping  below,  and  would  I  not 
come  down?  Convivial  sounds,  and  a  clinking  of 
glasses,  indicated  the  entertainment  as  under  way. 

The  champagne  worked  wonders.  I  rose  and 
went  down.  Supper  was  over,  but,  after  introduc- 
tions, I  fell  on  the  remains  of  what  had  been  a 
princely  repast.  Wine  flowed  freely,  and  toasts 
were  being  given;  I  was  asked  for  mine.  I  said, 
"Gentlemen — Excellency — I  will  give  you  a 
toast:  'Vive  I' Amur!' '  There  followed  perfunc- 
tory raising  of  glasses,  but,  likewise,  the  sickening 
silence  of  non-perception.  I  saw  I  was  among  the 
Scotch  of  Russia.  Nothing  daunted,  I  went  to  the 
piano  and  sang  to  them,  and  they  raised  a  cheer. 
I  sang  again.  There  was  more  wine.  They  all 
sang  at  once,  the  welkin  of  Eastern  Siberia  rang, 
and  we  made  merry  far  into  the  night.  This  was 
the  very  eve  of  the  war. 

Blagoveschensk,  on  the  Amur,  is  an  appreci- 
able town,  indeed  the  only  town  in  a  stretch  of 
1,200  miles.  This  unwieldy  name  will  go  down 
into  history.  Some  years  before,  the  Russians  had 
been  engaged  in  absorbing  Manchuria.  There 
were  acts  of  aggression  on  their  part,  fierce  re- 
prisals by  the  Chinese.  One  day  there  was  move- 
ment on  the  Manchurian  shore.  Rumour  of  an 


144  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

early  attack  spread  through  the  town,  and  the 
tocsin  was  sounded.  Four  thousand  unsuspecting 
Celestials  were  rounded  up  from  streets  and 
houses,  then  driven  like  sheep  into  the  river.  From 
the  river  none  returned.  It  is  said  that  none 
reached  the  Manchurian  bank. 

Again  the  sledge  gallops  on  its  way.  Again 
the  Cossack  posts  roll  by,  and  the  long  swell  of 
Siberia  rises  and  falls.  Heading  for  outlying 
mines,  we  bear  due  North.  Now  we  glide  along 
some  river,  now  take  to  the  plains.  Anon,  we 
traverse  a  forest  of  birches.  Is  it  "mimicry,"  or 
mere  wantonness? — for  their  trunks  are  whiter 
than  the  very  snow.  In  this  solitude  there  is  no 
wild  life,  no  stirring  tale  of  wolves.  Yet  what  a 
figure  I  might  have  cut !  The  rising  with  clenched 
teeth,  the  revolver  drawn  on  the  howling  pack, 
the  last  cartridge  fired,  the  quick  command  to  cut 
loose  the  third  horse,  the  sacrifice  of  Ivan,  by 
devoted  driver,  and  my  scalding  tears  as  I  realize 
he  has  saved  me ;  finally,  a  verst  ahead,  the  stout 
walls  of  the  fort !  My  mind's  eye  saw  it  all. 

Yet  there  reigned  in  that  sledge  a  fear  more 
insidious  than  of  wolves — the  fear  of  a  man  who 
cannot  sleep.  For  sixteen  out  of  each  twenty- 
four  hours  I  lay  in  the  dark,  sleepless,  jolted,  suf- 
focated by  the  thick  felt  covering,  my  nerves 
utterly  unstrung.  At  dead  of  night  I  would  enter 
some  post  station  and  cast  myself  on  the  floor. 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  145 

There  were  ten  minutes  here,  and  once  or  twice, 
in  a  few  stertorous  breaths,  sleep  came  to  me. 
But  for  those  sixteen  hours  each  night  my  mind 
fed  upon  itself.  For  its  diversion  I  told  myself 
the  story  of  my  life,  from  earliest  days,  and  in 
minutest  detail.  I  set  myself  problems  in  mining. 
I  worked  the  Rand  at  twelve  shillings  a  ton.  I 
ran  eight  hundred  stamps  on  a  small  island  of  my 
own.  I  became  the  greatest  expert  the  world  had 
known.  One  long,  weary  night  I  stood  for  Parlia- 
ment. At  first  my  religious  views  gave  offence; 
then  the  wives  of  my  constituents  heard  I  dressed 
for  dinner,  and  it  was  all  right.  Later,  I  became 
Prime  Minister.  After  each  twilight,  before  the 
drawing  of  the  felt  blankets,  I  gave  a  concert.  I 
sang  "The  Yeoman  of  the  Guard"  and  "The  Rose 
of  Persia"  from  beginning  to  end.  One  evening  I 
sang  the  "King's  Highway"  six  and  "The  Garden 
of  Sleep"  eight  times,  their  sad  note  accentuating 
the  horrors  of  the  coming  hours.  Assuming  a  rich 
bass,  I  sang  nightly  the  "Calf  of  Gold"  and  the 
"Serenade"  of  Mephistopheles.  As  the  words 
came  from  my  lips  they  congealed;  they  coated 
my  mouth  with  ice.  Had  the  dead  Gounod,  I 
wondered,  sung  them  at  forty  below  zero?  And 
so  I  sang,  and  shouted,  and  romanced,  and  my 
brain  went  to  seed,  and  my  depression  hung  ever 
heavier,  until  one  midnight  we  drove  into  Stret- 
insk  The  journey  was  over.  It  had  cost  me 


146  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

nineteen  nights  of  hell,  and  an  injured  nervous 
system.  I  vowed  I  would  not  go  through  it  again 
for  a  thousand  pounds  a  night,  and  from  that  de- 
cision I  do  not  waver. 

The  train  that  left  Stretinsk  next  day  started 
three  days  late.  War  had  broken  out.  The  main 
line  was  blocked  with  traffic,  and  on  this  branch 
things  had  to  adjust  themselves. 

I  lay  huddled  in  my  furs,  feeding  at  intervals, 
sleeping  much,  hardly  noting  the  lapse  of  time. 
When  we  came  to  the  main  line  refugees  crowded 
aboard;  at  the  eating-places  strong  women  fought 
for  food,  and  in  these  struggles  for  sustenance  my 
lethargy  fell  from  me.  Every  hour  we  were  side- 
tracked to  let  pass  a  train  with  troops  or  supplies ; 
our  stops  seemed  interminable.  We  lost  two  days 
more,  but  there  was  no  gap  in  that  procession  of 
trains  to  the  East. 

At  Lake  Baikal  there  was  transference  to 
sledges,  the  passage  of  the  lake  taking  some  five 
hours.  A  military  railroad  crossed  the  ice.  As 
the  wagons,  drawn  by  horses,  came  over  one  by 
one,  all  the  menageries  of  the  world  seemed  to 
be  on  the  move.  Regiments  were  marching  across 
the  lake — Cossacks  of  a  roughish  type ;  Russia  was 
not  yet  sending  of  her  best. 

On  the  far  shore,  solitary,  gazing  out  over 
Baikal,  stood  one  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  rai- 
ment of  snowy  felt.  He  was  tall,  and  bore  him- 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  EAST  147 

self  with  a  noble  mien.     This  knightly  figure — 

"Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful," 

as  it  might  be  some  Arthur,  come  again  to  Game- 
lot,  proved  to  be  Prince  Khilkoff,  Russia's  trusted 
Minister,  guiding  brain  of  the  line  that  was  to 
transport  and  feed  a  million  men.  An  aristocrat, 
he  had  begun  life  in  the  shops  of  the  Pennsylvania 
railroad,  and  working  steadily  up,  mastered  his 
craft.  Now,  in  the  fullness  of  years  and  wisdom, 
he  stood  there,  called  to  solve  Russia's  tremendous 
problem. 

Two  hours  later  there  came  in  sight  a  green- 
domed  cathedral.  It  was  Irkutsk — city  of  con- 
victs— where  Russia's  political  prisoners  live  and 
thrive.  In  Irkutsk  one  sees  men  who,  in  cattle  or 
gold-mining,  have  made  millions,  who  live  in  big 
houses,  who  drive  fine  horses,  yet  who  will  never 
leave  Siberia  alive.  But  they  seem  happy  enough. 
Here,  in  winter,  night  takes  the  place  of  day. 
The  restaurants,  the  dancing  halls,  open  at  eleven, 
at  two  they  are  in  full  swing,  at  five,  filled  with 
wine  and  wassail,  the  wretched  convicts  take  them- 
selves to  bed.  Irkutsk,  as  they  say  in  the  States, 
is  a  "wide  open"  town. 

I  was  still  in  the  Orient,  in  the  longitude  of 
Singapore,  but  affairs  now  called  rue  to  the  West. 
Taking  again  the  Siberian  railroad,  I  set  out  on 
the  nine  days'  journey  to  Moscow. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    DREAM     CITY    OF    SAMARKAND 

AT  Seraglio  Point,  where  the  waters  of  the 
Golden  Horn  mingle  with  those  of  the  Bosphor- 
us,  I  stood  one  evening  in  the  twilight.  As  I 
gazed  out  over  the  expanse,  the  high  outlines  of 
Pera  and  Galata  faded  and  Scutari  became  no 
more  than  a  cloud.  The  air  was  balmy,  the  night 
utterly  calm,  and  upon  me  lay  the  glamour  of  the 
East.  Where,  amid  these  shadows,  lay  "Cape 
Turk"? 

I  stood  there  till  the  moon,  bloodshot  and 
golden,  rose  up  over  the  Asiatic  shore,  and  the 
night  entered  into  her  enchantment.  This  was 
the  real  Stamboul.  By  day  I  had  judged  her 
squalid,  her  soul  escaped  me ;  but  in  the  first  hours 
of  this  night,  as  the  moonbeams  played  about  her 
minarets,  comprehension  came. 

It  was  Ramazan — the  month  of  months — and 
after  a  day  of  fasting  the  people  in  their  houses 
were  entering  on  a  night  of  festival.  The  streets 
were  empty,  but  from  behind  the  closed  shutters 
came  bursts  of  music,  and  the  quivering  falsetto 
of  some  Mahometan  soloist  rose  and  fell.  I  stood 

148 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND  149 

alone,  a  silent  listener  to  those  weird  cadences, 
and  as  they  died,  vanished  into  the  recesses  of  the 
city,  as  had  vanished,  some  sixty  years  before,  the 
intelligent  Arminius  Vambery. 

Through  the  horrid  purlieus  of  Galata  a  pro- 
cession passed  next  day  to  the  palace  gates  of 
Dolma  Bagtche.  Some  twenty  closed  carriages 
conveyed  the  harem  from  a  mosque,  and  some 
threescore  shrouded  female  forms  were  whisked 
rapidly  past.  Singly  in  the  first  three  vehicles 
rode  figures  of  a  massive  and  elderly  outline. 
Those  I  placed  with  certainty  as  wedded  wives. 
The  rest,  riding  four  to  a  coach,  were  plainly  of 
a  meaner  condition — perhaps  the  ladies  of  the  en- 
tourage; but  a  certain  grace  -of  outline,  and  a 
je  ne  sais  quoi  in  the  air,  seemed  to  indicate  them 
as  "those  others."  By  each  carriage,  stately  in 
the  black  frock  and  fez  of  their  land  of  adoption, 
rode  two  Nubian  eunuchs.  As  their  Arabs 
pranced  and  curvetted  to  the  crowds,  they  looked 
to  be  determined  and  pitiless  guardians  of  the 
proprieties. 

With  blare  of  barbaric  music,  a  road  lined  two- 
deep  with  soldiers,  with  forced  and  mirthless 
cheering,  Mahomet  V,  first  constitutional  Sultan 
of  Turkey,  drives  to  the  Selamlik.  He  passes,  this 
puppet,  alone  in  his  gorgeous  chariot — an  elderly 
man,  flabby,  washed  out,  he  looks  round  weakly 
on  the  crowd,  and  shyly  salutes.  A  captive  for 


150  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

near  thirty  years,  he  was  dragged  by  the  Young 
Turks  from  prison  to  throne.  But  figs  do  not  come 
from  thistles.  If  this  dazed  old  man  shall  blos- 
som into  a  king — into  any  personality  at  all — my 
eyes  will  have  played  me  an  unwonted  trick. 
This  elderly  prisoner  is  no  solution  of  Turkey's 
troubles. 

But  Central  Asia  lies  far  away,  and  I  must 
move  on.  Passing  up  the  Bosphorus  into  the 
Black  Sea,  I  came  next  day  to  Odessa.  Here,  on 
high  natural  terrace,  above  bay  and  shipping, 
stands  a  spacious  and  attractive  city.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  below  lies  the  sea  and  a  great  har- 
bour, and  in  the  distance  a  vista  of  endless  Rus- 
sian plains.  It  was  Sunday  evening;  a  military 
band  played,  and  along  the  boulevard  that  fronts 
the  sea  a  prosperous-looking  crowd  moved  to  and 
fro.  The  Jewish  face  was  predominant,  and  I 
called  to  mind  pogroms  of  recent  date,  and  the 
Jews  of  Odessa  going  to  their  death  in  droves; 
yet  here  they  were,  well-dressed,  uncringing,  smil- 
ing, and  here,  moreover,  were  hundreds  of  hand- 
some young  Jewesses,  on  whom  it  was  a  delight  to 
gaze.  Famed  for  her  export  of  wheat,  Odessa  is 
to  me  henceforth  the  city  of  good  looks.  The 
Russian  woman  showed  well  on  the  boulevards 
that  night;  but  it  was  the  Jewess — the  despised, 
immemorial  Hebrew — who  easily  bore  off  the 
palm. 


I  was  now  to  coast  the  Black  Sea,  and  a  day 
out  from  Odessa  landed  at  Sebastopol — a  naval 
harbour  and  considerable  town,  that  has  played 
its  part  in  history.  The  Crimea  was  the  freak  of 
a  century — Britain's  insanest  act  in  modern  times. 
Russia  was  altercating  with  Turkey  on  a  religious 
matter — on  the  treatment  of  Christians  in  Asia 
Minor.  As  I  understand  history  it  was  nothing 
more;  the  arriere-pensee,  if  present,  was  faint. 
Constantinople  was  not  aimed  at,  Turkey's  integ- 
rity not  even  threatened.  Yet  in  we  dash,  cats- 
paw  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  with  bagpipes 
playing,  flags  flying,  and  our  corrupt  army  con- 
tractors cheering  from  the  windows  of  Whitehall. 
It  may  have  been  magnificent  but  it  was  not  war : 
moreover,  we  were  on  the  wrong  horse. 

And  then  the  tactics  of  such  a  war !  If  we  had 
gained  these  few  barren  miles,  where  would  we 
have  been?  Out  on  a  little  tongue  of  land,  no 
more  formidable  to  great  and  holy  Russia  than  a 
hostile  Anglesea  to  an  armed  England. 

We  called  ourselves  the  victors:  but  what  a 
victory!  What  had  we  fought  for"?  I  doubt  if 
the  good  Queen  Victoria  (R.  but  not  yet  I.)  could 
herself  have  told. 

The  result  of  it  all  was  Russia's  hatred  for 
fifty  years,  her  rapid  advance  into  Central  Asia, 
our  expansion  blocked  there,  our  failure  to  absorb 
Afghanistan,  the  defection  of  Persia  and  Tibet, 


152  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

and  a  host  of  minor  frontier  wars  and  troubles  too 
intricate  to  unravel.  We  have  paid  for  our  "vic- 
tory" ten  times  over.  Let  me  say  this :  our  Indian 
frontier  is  in  superb  strength;  to  this  extent  good 
has  come  out  of  evil,  but  I  shall  ever  hold  Eng- 
land's presence  in  the  Crimea  matter  for  repent- 
ance. 

The  eastern  shores  of  the  Black  Sea  are  moun- 
tainous, wooded,  almost  beautiful,  and  skirting 
them  you  come  at  last,  in  the  south-east  corner, 
to  Batoum.  A  poor  place  this,  but  of  some  im- 
portance; for  an  8-inch  pipe-line  brings  refined  oil 
from  the  wells  of  Baku,  five  hundred  miles  away, 
and  tank  steamers,  lying  at  the  quay,  turn  a  tap, 
load  up,  and  are  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

It  was  at  Batoum  I  first  met  the  Armenians; 
and  even  as  the  pious  ^Eneas  suspected  the  Greeks, 
so  henceforth  I  watched  this  tribe  of  evil  repute. 
They  say  Jews  may  not  enter  the  Caucasus. 
What  Jew  would  want  to*?  These  subtle  atroci- 
ties could  run  the  Hebrew  nation  off  its  legs.  Far 
in  the  mountains  of  Armenia  the  Ark  rested  on 
Ararat.  Proud,  we  must  suppose,  of  this  tradi- 
tion, they  adopted  the  Christian  mythology,  and 
entered  their  unquiet  heritage.  A  thousand  years 
of  oppression  has  evolved  a  strange,  not  a  Chris- 
tian type;  prince  among  schemers,  the  nth  power 
in  subtlety,  if  his  breadth  of  vision  matched  his 
cunning,  the  Armenian  would  rule  the  world. 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND    153 

One  Balthazar,  an  interpreter,  was  my  first. 
He  served  me  well  and  faithfully;  born  of  a  race 
of  linguists,  he  spoke  six  tongues.  He  knew  his 
tribe.  "These  Armenians  are  bloody  liars,"  he 
said  to  me  one  day,  and  I  have  found  this  ma- 
tured opinion  universally  endorsed. 

Let  it  now  be  revealed  that  Svengali,  who  came 
"out  of  the  mysterious  East,"  was  of  this  race. 
He  was  born  at  Erzeroum,  Turkish  Armenia,  in 
October,  1818.  He  mastered  music  at  Vienna  in 
the  forties,  and,  returning  for  a  while  to  the  East, 
developed  strange  powers  of  magnetism.  He  first 
saw  Trilby  in  1861. 

How  do  I  know  these  things'?  I  know  more. 
His  son  is  cashier  in  the  Armenian  Bank  at 
Batoum.  The  black  beard  is  deceptive,  but  he 
must  be  turned  fifty;  he  speaks  excellent  French, 
and  is  going  bald.  We  discussed  the  terms  of  a 
draft  on  Odessa,  and  no  hint  of  recognition 
passed.  But  that  high,  thin  nose,  that  hawk-like 
visage,  Jewish,  yet  not  Jewish!  There  could  be 
no  mistake.  He  saw  I  knew,  that  I  was  deeply 
interested,  and  that  it  would  make  literary  capi- 
tal— and  lie  raised  the  discount  an  eighth, 

In  the  mountains,  forty-five  miles  behind 
Batoum,  in  the  heart  of  the  Caucasus,  is  a  copper- 
mine.  It  has  been  one  of  the  tragedies  of  the  last 
decade,  but  let  that  pass.  The  mine  lies  at  5,000 
feet,  and  through  a  distant  nek  in  the  ranges  can 


154  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

be  seen  the  white  top  of  Mount  Elburz,  high-point 
of  Europe.  This  country  is  Turkish  in  all  but 
name.  Turks  worked  in  the  mine,  and  Turkish 
mountaineers,  armed  to  the  teeth,  sauntered  down 
from  their  villages.  In  the  valley,  3,000  feet  be- 
low, lies  the  smelter,  and  at  long  last  its  furnaces 
were  fired.  Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  As 
vultures,  wheeling  invisible  in  the  heavens,  swoop 
to  the  carcass,  so  Persians  appeared  before  these 
furnaces.  At  the  mine,  at  the  works,  Turks,  Rus- 
sians, Georgians  come  and  go;  but  at  these  fur- 
naces, gazing  into  their  molten  depths  with  the 
eyes  of  men  long  dead,  and  stoking,  it  seemed  to 
me,  as  men  would  stoke  for  a  rite,  are  always 
Persians.  Now  tell  me — tell  me,  Zoroaster !  Or, 
you,  perchance,  Loge!  Is  this  atavism?  Is  it  the 
throw-back?  Were  these  fortuitous  posturings, 
or  was  it  fire-worship  I  saw,  in  that  lonely  moun- 
tain valley  at  the  back  of  Batoum? 

Tiflis,  capital  of  the  Caucasus,  a  large  town  in 
barren  country,  did  not  attract.  On  the  exhibi- 
tion of  roubles  a  motor  was  forthcoming,  and  at 
five  on  an  October  morning  I  drew  out  on  the 
two  hundred  versts  that  led  to  Vladikavkaz.  Two 
American  ladies  honoured  my  car.  We  followed 
the  famous  Georgian  military  road;  and  rising 
slowly  up  autumn  valleys  on  to  bleak  moorlands, 
found  ourselves  by  midday  at  7,000  feet,  the  top 
of  the  pass. 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND    155 

From  here  the  road  led  down  and  down.  The 
mountains  closed  in.  The  scene  was  obscured, 
but  the  road's  fine  engineering,  the  long,  stoutly 
built  snowsheds,  made  on  me  due  impression. 
Still  down  it  went,  and  we  passed  into  a  rugged 
and  tremendous  gorge,  where,  with  sound  as  of 
artillery,  a  tyre  burst,  and  whence  we  emerged, 
at  the  darkening,  into  low,  wooded  country  and 
well-watered  meadows,  with  the  domes  of  Vladi- 
kavkaz no  more  than  a  league  away. 

That  evening,  at  the  Hotel  Europe,  several 
were  witness  of  a  pathetic  sight.  The  chauffeur, 
a  young  Swiss,  flushed  with  wine  and  above  him- 
self, suddenly  entered  the  salon.  Possessing  him- 
self of  the  piano,  "Daisy,  Daisy"  and  several  of 
the  less  intellectual  of  our  folk-songs  were  terribly 
butchered.  Intimating  to  us  that  this  effort  was 
in  honor  of  the  English,  he  disappeared  again  into 
the  night.  Of  Vladikavkaz,  a  featureless  Russian 
town,  I  have  nothing  to  say;  but  on  the  return 
journey,  a  few  versts  out,  there  was  a  sudden 
tremor,  and  the  car  collapsed.  The  danger  looked 
mortal ;  and  there  we  were,  trudging  the  road  for 
help,  "marching  through  Georgia"  for  an  ox  team. 
Things  went  to  glory  with  us  that  morning;  the 
songster,  jaded  and  morose,  brought  us  into  Tiflis 
a  day  overdue. 

Baku,  on  the  shores  of  the  Caspian,  is  the  city 
of  oil,  and  the  ugliest  spot  in  Europe.  On  three 


156  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

sides  there  is  desert,  dotted  with  groups  of  un- 
couth-looking oil  wells.  On  the  fourth  lies  the 
great  inland  sea,  whose  shallow  waters,  so  easily 
lashed  to  fury,  were  now  blue  and  sparkling  in 
the  balmy  autumn  sun.  There  is  great  commerce 
on  the  Caspian  Sea.  It  is  the  highroad  to  North- 
ern Persia  and  to  the  territories  of  Central  Asia, 
is  the  scene  of  big  fisheries  centring  at  Astrakhan, 
in  which  the  sturgeon  so  handsomely  plays  a  part, 
and  outlet  for  that  great  river,  the  Volga,  up 
which  Baku  oil,  Astrakhan  caviare,  and  Central 
Asian  cotton  crowd,  from  the  spring  melting  of 
the  ice  until  the  month  of  November. 

In  the  streets  of  Baku,  whose  population  is 
above  a  quarter  of  a  million,  walk  Russians,  Ar- 
menians, Persians,  Tartars,  Lesgins,  Kalmucks, 
Jews,  Greeks,  Turkomans — a  mixed  and  lawless 
throng.  A  few  years  ago  Baku  was  in  revolution. 
Many  of  the  wells  were  maliciously  fired,  prop- 
erty was  badly  damaged,  and  a  deep  upheaval 
against  authority  seemed  certain.  But  as  at 
Odessa,  where  an  organized  massacre  of  Jews,  by 
Christians,  put  the  mob  in  humour,  so  here  there 
was  a  throwing  to  the  lions.  This  time  the  Tar- 
tars were  let  loose.  The  Armenians  perished,  but 
the  Government  was  saved.  They  call  this  in 
medicine  the  use  of  the  "counter-irritant."  The 
method  in  politics  is  scientifically  correct;  it  might 
conceivably  one  day  save  us  India.  Let  us  hope 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   157 

not,  for  the  method  is  cynical;  but  then  the  va- 
garies of  the  religions,  the  hatred  of  creed  for 
creed,  tend  to  cynicism.  The  revenue  Baku  yields 
is  fabulous.  The  Government  tax  on  oil  lands, 
leased  out  on  a  royalty  basis,  averages  not  less 
than  30  per  cent,  of  the  gross  value  of  the  oil  pro- 
duced. Thirty  per  cent. !  And  in  the  old  days, 
when  Paul  Kruger  and  his  "corrupt  oligarchy" 
put  5  per  cent,  net  on  the  gold-mines  of  the  Rand, 
we  thought  the  end  had  come. 

Baku  has  done  the  British  no  good.  A  number 
of  wells  were  bought  by  us,  but  bought  too  dear  ; 
they  lacked  good  management,  their  owners  had 
no  local  knowledge,  some  wells  ran  dry,  a  number 
lessened  their  yield,  and  the  record  is  of  loss  from 
beginning  to  end.  Fortunes  have  been  made  here, 
many  fortunes,  but  these  wells  are  no  longer  a 
speculation  for  the  outsider. 

As  I  sailed  down  the  shores  of  the  Caspian  the 
desert  aspect  changed.  A  greenness  crept  into  the 
plain,  forests  came,  then  mountains,  and  at  Enzeli 
I  landed  in  heavy  rain. 

So  this  was  Persia !  I  had  looked  for  blue  sky, 
barren  wastes,  trains  of  camels,  and  here  were 
drenched  green  meadows,  groves  of  mulberries, 
mud,  and  a  people  ragged  and  bedraggled.  Such 
was  the  land  for  fifty  miles  as  I  drove  South ;  then 
the  rude  postchaise  ascended  through  forests,  and 


158  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

by  evening  came  out  on  the  tableland  of  Persia. 
Here  was  the  desert,  the  real  thing,  the  Iran  of 
song  and  story;  and  as  for  camels,  under  a  full 
Eastern  moon,  heavily  laden,  there  were  thou- 
sands passing  along  that  highway  to  the  interior. 
At  dead  of  night,  with  honeyed  words,  keepers  of 
the  post-houses  bade  me  stop  and  enter.  But 
never  a  toman  charmed  they  from  me,  never  a 
kran;  for  I  carried  my  sustenance,  I  took  my  rest 
in  the  chaise  under  the  sky,  and  my  eyes,  as  the 
eyes  of  Rhoda  and  Minna,  were  fixed  on  the  dis- 
tant hills. 

Yet  because  of  this  fixity  I  sinned.  Next  day, 
as  we  travelled,  a  horse  failed.  With  lash  and 
goad  a  brutal  driver  forced  him  on.  The  stricken, 
willing  brute  struggled  gamely,  till  at  last  eyes 
and  nostrils  suddenly  suffused  with  blood,  and  he 
fell  exhausted. 

And  I  had  let  this  thing  be.  Angered  at  any 
delay,  I  had  protested  all  too  feebly.  Even  now 
my  desires  seemed  so  vivid,  those  of  the  beast 
that  lay  there  quaking  so  remote.  It  was  not  I, 
to  my  shame,  but  the  Armenian,  who  laid  a  blan- 
ket over  those  sweating  limbs ;  yet  had  I  done  this 
for  my  dumb  servant,  or  laid  my  hand  a  while 
over  those  tired,  frightened  eyes,  I  had  gone  into 
Persia  a  better  man.  I  do  not  even  know  if  he 
lived.  In  an  hour  a  driver  with  fresh  horses  came 
from  the  post-house.  Mounting  to  his  seit,  and 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   159 

galloping,  he  burst  into  a  shrill  song  of  love,  hold- 
ing merry  converse  with  Balthazar.  I,  who  had 
come  again  to  my  right  mind,  lay  back  degraded 
and  ashamed. 

All  that  day,  and  a  second  night,  I  drove  on 
over  the  wastes;  through  the  old  city  of  Kazvin; 
past  the  oasis  of  Karaj,  where  grapes  were  grow- 
ing, until  the  giant  white  peak  of  Demavend  stood 
out.  At  the  fifty-third  hour  the  open  gates  of 
Teheran  received  me. 

The  Persians  are  sunk  in  squalor  and  in  apathy. 
Weak  in  character,  unstable  as  water,  they  look 
to  be  desperately  poor  material.  Yet  let  us  be 
fair,  let  us  get  to  the  root  of  these  things.  Cast- 
ing our  eyes  around,  let  them  light  on  this  stout 
burgess  of  Tunbridge  Wells  in  the  county  of  Kent. 
See  him,  breakfasted,  complacent,  emerge  from 
semi-detached  villa,  wherein  are  found  a  buxom 
spouse,  a  warm  bed,  clean  sheets,  beef  and  beer, 
coals,  hot  and  cold  water,  and  the  usual  domestic 
offices.  See  him,  fitly  clad,  wending  his  way  to 
shop  or  business,  working  in  comfort,  and  emerg- 
ing toward  evening,  richer  by  a  pound  sterling  or 
more,  to  return  to  a  dinner  of  meat,  tobacco,  and 
a  good  book. 

Take  this  man — typifying  this  our  England — 
and  mark  him  well.  There,  but  for  the  grace  of 
Cromwell,  goes  a  Persian.  For  it  is  freedom,  more 
than  all  else  together,  that  has  placed  the  English- 


160  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

man  where  he  is,  and  it  is  despotism — bad,  hope- 
less, vile  despotism — that  has  put  the  Persian, 
physically  and  morally,  where  he  is.  Oliver,  I 
salute  you!  Without  you,  where  had  we  been 
to-day — or  Europe  ?  What  a  way  you  had  with  a 
despot !  What  a  touch !  Do  you  recall  that  little 
procession  through  Whitehall?  Can  you  re-pic- 
ture that  mounting  of  steps,  that  removal  of 
Flanders  lace,  that  mystification  of  the  worthy 
Juxon?  Did  you  hear  that  thud,  Protector? 
That  was  a  man's  head  as  it  bounced  into  the 
sawdust.  Quite  an  important  head  too;  quite  a 
good  place,  all  things  considered,  for  it  to  bounce. 
Charles  died  like  a  man.  We  grant  him  that. 
But  hurrah  for  Cromwell  and  the  axe!  Should 
the  liberty  of  these  dear  islands  be  ever  in  jeop- 
ardy, let  it  descend  again  and  again. 

Under  the  Kajars,  Persia  has  run  utterly  to 
seed.  This  dynasty,  for  a  hundred  years,  has  fur- 
nished debauchees,  spendthrifts,  fools,  murderers, 
but  never  a  financier,  never  a  statesman.  The 
land  under  them  went  fallow.  It  mattered  little 
that  men  should  sow  or  reap  fine  crops,  for  the 
officials  took  the  crops;  that  others  should  breed 
flocks,  or  start  thriving  industries,  for  the  Shah, 
his  myrmidons,  or  the  tax-gatherers  marked  them 
down.  Holding  absolute  power,  these  Kajar  des- 
pots, debauched  to  enervation,  bored  to  extinc- 
tion, flattered  out  of  their  senses,  have  squandered, 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   161 

robbed,  murdered,  while  Persia,  their  unhappy 
country,  went  to  seed,  and  its  people  sank  to  the 
rags,  squalor,  and  apathy  in  which  I  now  see 
them. 

In  the  year  1909  they  rebelled.  Men  from 
the  mountains,  the  grizzled  Bakhtiari,  appeared 
before  the  capital.  The  cowardly  troops  of  the 
Shah  fled.  The  city  fell  with  hardly  a  blow. 
A  leader  came  forward,  and  a  revolutionary  gov- 
ernment was  formed.  The  Shah,  failing  in  a 
coup  d'etat,  was  deposed.  His  life  was  spared, 
and  with  six  of  his  women  he  drove  out  of  his 
city,  bound  for  distant  Odessa.  His  son,  a  child, 
they  proclaimed  king,  with  a  regent  of  the  princely 
family;  but  I  could  wish  this  damnable  Kajar 
dynasty  swept  neck  and  crop  out  of  the  land. 

Teheran  is  a  city  set  on  a  plain.  Her  earthen 
ramparts,  that  keep  out  no  foe,  extend  for  eleven 
miles,  and  are  pierced  by  twelve  stately  gates. 
Behind  Teheran,  at  half  a  day's  journey,  lie  the 
mountains,  whence,  by  cunningly  wrought  under- 
ground channels,  water  is  carried  to  the  city,  and 
so  she  lies  embowered  in  trees,  an  oasis  in  the 
surrounding  desert. 

This  city  lies  at  near  4,000  feet,  in  the  latitude 
of  Southern  Spain.  The  autumn  sun  is  yet  balmy, 
and  the  vendors  of  melons  and  pomegranates  are 
still  in  the  streets,  but  the  nights  are  already  cold, 
and  the  snow  is  lying  far  down  the  mountains. 


162  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Teheran  is  a  poor  city,  in  a  poorer  country ;  yet  a, 
quarter  of  a  million  people  must  live  and  trade; 
so  we  see,  converging  over  the  desert,  from  the 
oases,  from  villages  of  the  plain,  from  cities  more 
distant,  from  Ispahan,  Yezd,  Meshed  and  Kazvin, 
and  from  the  shores  of  the  Caspian,  a  motley  traf- 
fic. Here  are  camels  from  the  mountains,  with 
firewood;  here  are  horses  from  Enzeli,  packed  with 
conical  loaves  of  Russian  sugar;  here  are  asses 
from  Karaj,  with  grapes,  their  weary  driver  him- 
self freighted  with  forage ;  these  horsemen,  ragged 
and  dusty,  are  pilgrims,  returning  from  Kerbela; 
this  creature  is  a  beggar,  this  other  a  dervish  from 
Khorassan;  the  shrouded  objects  in  that  cart  are 
women  off  to  a  wedding,  and  the  sewn-up  thing 
lying  across  that  mule  a  corpse.  Thus  runs  the 
world  at  the  gates  of  Teheran. 

The  bazaars  of  the  city,  arched  vaults  of  brick, 
that  are  but  dimly  lit  from  above,  cover  a  great 
area.  They  form  an  endless  twilight  labyrinth 
of  booths,  of  caravanserais,  of  eating-houses, 
where,  in  a  day,  one  will  see  pass  all  the  peoples 
of  the  East ;  where  heavily  laden  trains  of  camels, 
with  soft  deliberate  tread,  stalk  dimly  through, 
scattering  to  right  and  left  the  unwary;  where  beg- 
gars importune,  merchants  beckon,  mullahs  glare, 
and  fanatic  Shiahs  jostle;  and  where,  hour  after 
hour,  I  wandered  alone,  unoriented  and  utterly 
happy. 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   163 

This  I  noted :  at  two  of  the  clock  the  bazaars 
were  at  their  height.  At  four  the  crowd  melted; 
at  five  the  bazaars  were  empty,  the  booths  closed, 
and  the  people  making  for  the  evening  prayer  at 
the  mosques.  In  the  squares,  crowds  would  lin- 
ger awhile  round  some  frenzied  holy  man;  but 
with  the  fall  of  night  the  streets  were  bare,  the 
gates  closed,  and  the  city  fast  settling  to  her 
rest. 

Just  where  the  bazaars  pour  out  their  crowds 
toward  evening  stand  the  high  walls  of  the 
palace.  Within  this  considerable  rectangle,  in 
fact,  is  found  not  one  palace  but  many — caprices 
of  a  spendthrift  dynasty — and  all  at  random  are 
seen  galleries,  throne-rooms,  an  orangery,  a  circus, 
tiled  kiosks,  flower-gardens,  and  small  lakes.  In 
these  revolutionary  times  people  came  and  went 
at  will.  Unchallenged,  I  penetrated  to  the  inner- 
most recess,  where  old  trees  hung  over  running 
water,  and  where  kiosks,  flower-beds,  and  small, 
placid  lakes  made  an  altogether  lovely  scene. 
Groups  of  Persians,  without  doubt  the  leading 
men  of  the  realm,  strolled  here,  and  some  high 
officials  in  uniform,  but  to  the  barbarian  and  his 
companion  gave  no  thought.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  cry  of  "Naib  Sultaneh!"  and  the  Regent  of 
Persia,  an  ancient  bearded  man  of  dervish-like 
aspect,  passed  from  behind  some  trees,  and  with  a 
small  retinue  entered  the  palace.  This  old  man, 


164  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

head  of  the  Kajar  tribe,  and  a  prince  of  the  blood, 
is  but  a  cipher  in  the  hands  of  the  revolution;  a 
personage  for  the  moment,  his  day  will  soon  pass. 
And  then  there  came  another  cry  of  "Sipahdar!" 
I  turned,  to  see  the  obsequious  Armenian,  hat  in 
hand,  bowing  low,  and  a  man  in  black,  with 
strong,  flashing  face — the  only  strong  face  in  this 
land  of  apathy — moving  towards  the  palace.  As 
he  reached  the  door,  all  those  in  the  garden  seemed 
to  be  there.  They  parted,  some  dozen  men  of 
note,  and  as  he  passed  through  bent  themselves 
to  the  very  ground. 

Such  was  this  man — head  of  the  revolution, 
commander  of  the  army,  Prime  Minister,  and  the 
real  ruler  of  Persia.  A  wealthy  landowner  of 
Mazanderan,  a  governor  under  the  old  regime, 
this  strong  being  may,  or  may  not,  be  the  instru- 
ment forged  to  pull  Persia  from  the  mire.  But, 
gentlemen  of  the  inner  circle,  ye  who  adulated 
just  now  in  the  garden,  a  word  with  you !  This 
revolution,  that  has  thrown  you  on  its  crest,  is  a 
very  serious  thing.  The  fighting  is  over,  it  is 
true ;  but  there  is  much  thought,  much  spade-work 
entailed,  and  this  dalliance  in  the  royal  pleas- 
aunce,  this  mere  bringing  of  yourselves  before  the 
master's  eye,  will  not  see  you  through.  Up,  and 
away  to  your  desks !  Up,  and  administer  Persia ! 
You,  my  dear  sir,  on  whose  bosom  repose  medal- 
lions, are  you  aware  that  the  drainage  of  Tabriz 


cries  aloud  to  Heaven^  You  too,  sirs,  members  of 
the  Cabinet!  The  postal  service  of  the  Southern 
cities  is  in  abeyance,  and  robber  bands  beset  the 
highways,  the  people  of  Ispahan  clamour  for  jus- 
tice, and  the  men  of  the  capital  for  stability.  Per- 
sia is  festering.  Get  to  work,  I  say,  each  accord- 
ing to  his  capacity.  Now  is  the  accepted  time. 
You,  and  your  country,  are  in  the  balance.  Eng- 
land and  Russia  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  sand 
in  the  glass  runs  low ! 

The  vision  of  Teheran  that  will  linger,  was 
that  seen  from  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  city  of 
Re.  Springs  gush  here  from  the  limestone,  and 
for  a  mile  round  are  old  trees  and  a  rich  vegeta- 
tion. In  this  oasis  stands  the  mosque  of  Shah 
Abdul  Azim.  On  Fridays  visited  by  thousands 
from  the  city,  it  was  here,  a  dozen  years  ago,  that 
the  Shah  Nazr-ed-Din  fell  by  an  assassin's  hand. 
Standing  on  the  old  ramparts  of  Re,  the  oasis 
and  its  mosque  behind  me,  I  gazed  out  over  the 
desert.  Two  leagues  from  me  Teheran  lay  under 
its  foliage.  Above  the  tree-tops  the  eye  rested 
on  the  minarets  of  Sipeh  Salar,  and  on  the  castle 
of  Qasr-i-Kajar  that  lies  on  a  crest  beyond  the 
city  walls.  But  the  glamour  lay  on  Sar-i-gabr-i- 
Agha,  whose  tiled  dome  was  flashing  among  the 
trees  like  a  great  jewel.  Clouds  cross  the  heaven, 
and  the  dome  sinks  to  a  dead  blue ;  anon,  it  deep- 
ens, glows,  the  sun  strikes,  and  then  bursts  out 


166  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  glorious  colour  of  turquoise,  Persia's  stone  of 
stones,  and  her  dead  craftsmen  become  sacred  in 
my  eyes. 

This  is  my  last  night  in  Teheran.  Waiting  for 
Hatim  Tai's  cry  of  "Supper,"  I  wrap  myself 
warmly,  and  pass  into  the  little  garden  where  I 
am  domiciled.  As  I  pace  slowly  in  the  darkness, 
I  reflect  thus :  Of  later  Persia,  her  Nadir  was  her 
zenith;  but  this  cycle,  that  opened  with  paradox 
so  auspicious,  has  rolled  itself  out.  Bankrupt,  her 
people  sunk  in  apathy,  vitiated  by  opium,  her 
priests  fanatic,  her  officials  corrupt,  her  kings 
hopeless — can  regeneration  come  *?  Does  this  revo- 
lution, whose  echoes  still  reverberate,  mean  some- 
thing true  and  deep,  a  stirring  of  the  bones,  or  is 
this  one-time  great  country  and  her  people  now 
passing  to  the  chamber  of  death?  I  fear  for 
Persia. 

This  is  no  garden  of  Shiraz  where  I  walk;  yet 
oleanders  are  blooming,  and  they  tell  me  Shiraz 
herself  has  gone  the  way  of  all  things  Persian. 
How  the  illusions  go  here!  Yet  see!  Rising  as 
it  rose  of  old — when  Saadi  and  Hafrz  sang,  when 
roses  blossomed  by  Bendemeer,  and  Ispahan 
reigned  Queen  of  the  East — the  lovely  orb  of 
night  moves  up  the  sky.  And  this,  truly,  is  no  il- 
lusion. 

"Ah,   moon  of  my   delight  who  know'st  no  wane, 
The  moon  of  heaven  is  rising  once  again: 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   167 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  shall  she  look 
Through  this  same  garden  after  me  in  vain!" 

Over  against  Baku,  on  the  Eastern  shore  of  the 
Caspian,  where  no  Englishman  used  to  land  with- 
out permit  from  Russia's  Minister  of  War,  lies 
the  desert  town  of  Krasnovodsk,  starting-point  of 
the  Trans-Caspian  railway.  Some  twelve  hun- 
dred miles  in  length,  this  line  was  built  to  cement 
the  Central  Asiatic  conquests  of  Russia  and,  as 
we  are  told,  to  menace  the  existence  of  our  own 
Hindustan. 

If  one  travels  by  the  evening  train — for  the 
authorities  run  two,  if  not  three  trains  daily,  seek- 
ing from  this  line,  it  would  seem,  no  commercial 
result — he  will  pass  out  of  Krasnovodsk  toward 
six  o'clock.  It  will  be  already  dark.  The  long 
train  will  be  nearly  empty:  in  first  and  second 
class  perhaps  five  passengers,  and  in  the  third  a 
few  natives  of  the  region  huddled  in  their  first 
sleep,  and  the  traveller  will  reflect  on  so  strange  a 
procession  of  empty  trains  disappearing  into  the 
Central  Asian  desert  day  after  day,  year  after 
year.  Then  he  will  spread  his  bed,  blow  out  the 
spluttering  candle,  and  seek  oblivion. 

Next  morning  the  train  is  far  out  on  the  Turko- 
man Steppe.  As  flat  and  desert-like  an  expanse 
as  can  anywhere  be  found,  this  is  seen  stretching 
north  with  never  a  billow.  Far  to  the  south  the 
faint  outlines  of  a  mountain  range  mark  the  bor- 


168  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

der-line  of  Persia.  There  is  sustenance  in  this 
desert.  Camels  are  browsing  on  the  scrub,  and 
now  and  again  horsemen  ride  into  view ;  their  vil- 
lages lie  south  of  the  line,  toward  the  frontier. 
But  what  a  day  of  days!  What  exhilaration  in 
the  air!  What  a  blending  of  sky  with  horizon! 
I  was  to  learn  from  this  moment  that  the  Central 
Asian  autumn  is  most  perfect  of  all  earthly  cli- 
mates. 

Presently  the  train  comes  to  Geok  Tepe. 
Standing  in  full  view  are  the  mud  walls,  high 
and  wide,  of  the  famous  fort,  where,  with  assured 
water  supply,  forty-five  thousand  Turkomans  cast 
the  die,  where  upon  a  day  in  1881  their  power  was 
broken  for  ever,  and  in  the  name  of  Skobeleff 
flashed  across  the  world.  I  wandered  inside  the 
great  rectangle  of  the  fort,  that  might  be  a  mile 
long  by  a  third  wide.  I  saw  the  Turkomans'  well 
of  water,  and  by  it  the  national  memorial  to  the 
victor.  He  attacked,  it  is  there  stated,  with  six 
thousand  men,  losing  eleven  hundred — a  great  but 
surely  a  foregone  victory.  Outside  the  fort,  by 
the  station,  is  the  Skobeleff  Museum.  Kuropat- 
kin,  chief  of  staff  that  day,  himself  no  mean  sol- 
dier, built  this  when  Governor  of  Trans-Caspia, 
but  the  relics  now  rest  in  Tashkent.  "A  flighty, 
ill-balanced  creature,  this  Skobeleff,"  said  one  who 
knew  to  me:  "a  character  in  no  sense  admirable. 
Yet  place  him  on  a  battlefield,  and  in  a  flash  its 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   169 

strategy  lay  bare  before  him.    He  was  unerring — 
a  genius." 

Again  the  train  rumbled  over  the  steppe.  In 
less  than  two  hours  Askabad  came  in  sight,  the 
capital  of  Trans-Caspia,  an  ugly  desert  town  close 
on  the  Persian  frontier,  with  a  large  garrison  and 
many  officials.  Yet  Askabad  has  claim  to  recog- 
nition. It  is  the  chief  centre  of  Babism,  that  re- 
ligion evolved  and  preached  by  the  truly  good 
Mirza  Ali-Mahomet  of  Shiraz,  executed  in  Ta- 
briz in  1849,  a  man  I  take  to  have  been  one  of 
the  inspired  teachers  of  the  century.  There  is 
food  for  thought  in  contrasting  his  end — on  the 
scaffold,  his  followers  scattered  to  the  winds — 
with  that  of  another  founder  of  a  religion,  Mrs. 
Eddy,  dying  in  her  bed  in  Boston,  with  the  elect 
round  her,  with  two  millions  of  dollars  in  the 
bank,  and  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope  that  her 
name  will  become  venerated  and  holy. 

At  sunset  we  were  travelling  under  the  Persian 
mountains.  Mentally,  I  stood  on  their  crest  and 
gazed  down  into  the  fair  land  of  Khorassan,  and 
I  saw  Meshed,  with  the  tomb  of  the  Imam  all 
aglow,  and  the  throng  passing  in  the  Khaiban. 
But  the  night  came  down,  and  the  "vision  splen- 
did" paled,  and  the  next  I  knew  it  was  eleven 
o'clock,  and  we  were  at  the  oasis  of  Merv.  I  left 
the  train  and  entered  a  dirty  Russian  inn. 

There  was  a  market  in  Merv  next  day.    From 


170  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

dawn  horsemen  and  men  on  foot,  but  mostly 
horsemen,  for  these  Turkomans  of  the  oasis  are 
well-to-do,  poured  in.  At  ten  o'clock  I  came  on 
to  the  great  market  square.  There  I  found  some 
three  or  four  thousand  horses,  each  at  its  tether; 
their  owners,  tall  bearded  Turkomans  in  high 
sheepskin  hats  and  quilted  gowns,  well-looking 
men  of  a  strong  Mongolian  type,  talked  in 
groups,  or  sat  at  tea  in  the  booths.  It  was  a 
great  market.  There  were  camels  laden  with  raw 
cotton  and  asses  laden  with  melons;  there  were 
young  camels  for  sale,  and  horses  and  sheep,  and 
piles  of  native  crockery,  and  grains,  and  sweet- 
meats, and  silver-sheathed  knives.  One  saw  these 
people  had  money,  and  realized  the  cash  value  of 
a  first-class  oasis. 

Old  Merv,  very  famous  city  of  antiquity,  was 
located  a  few  miles  from  here;  the  ruins  are  still 
to  be  seen.  Near  its  site,  at  Bairam-Ali,  the  Czar 
had  laid  out  a  private  estate,  with  a  cotton-clean- 
ing mill,  orchards,  and  a  jam  factory;  the  fruit 
crop  is  enormous. 

At  this  season  no  green  thing  was  showing  in 
Merv.  The  trees  were  leafless,  the  cotton  and  the 
fruit  plucked,  the  roads  lay  deep  in  dust.  But  the 
irrigation  furrows  were  running  full,  and  with 
spring  there  would  come  that  burst  of  verdure 
that  has  made  this  oasis  famous. 

From  Merv  a  branch  line  runs  south  to  Kushk, 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   171 

on  the  Afghan  frontier.  It  is  Russia's  great  mys- 
tery line,  not  to  be  traversed,  even  with  special 
permit.  There  are,  doubtless,  troops  down  in  this 
corner,  and  forts,  and,  it  may  be,  as  I  have  heard 
said,  great  stocks  of  railway  material.  But  write 
these  things  off.  The  Russians  will  not — cannot 
— invade  India  in  our  day.  The  thing  is  a  myth. 
They  know  it.  We  know  it.  Kushk,  with  its 
branch  line,  need  not  worry  us. 

I  left  Merv  and  passed  again  out  into  the 
wastes,  that  evening  crossing,  by  a  bridge  that 
is  near  a  mile  in  length,  a  classic  river.  This  is 
the  Oxus,  or  Amu  Daria,  that  rises  in  the  Pamirs. 
Its  waters,  fertilizing  the  land  in  the  upper 
reaches,  flow  down  to  these  Central  Asian  deserts, 
and  discharge  finally,  five  hundred  miles  to  the 
north,  into  the  inland  Sea  of  Aral.  Towards  mid- 
night I  alighted  at  the  station  of  Kagan. 

I  awoke  to  another  of  these  glorious  days  of 
autumn.  Taking  scant  heed  of  the  ugly  Russian 
settlement  that  clustered  round  the  station  of 
Kagan,  I  was  soon  driving  over  the  plain.  I  was 
in  Bokhara.  These  plains  were  the  Emir's  terri- 
tory; Bokhara  the  holy,  the  learned,  the  goal  of 
travellers,  and  the  mart  of  Central  Asia,  lay  but 
eight  miles  away. 

Here  was  a  fertile  land,  watered  with  many 
furrows.  Cotton  in  the  pod,  yet  unreaped,  stood 
in  the  fields;  there  were  green  meadows  where- 


172  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

on  the  fat-tailed  sheep  browsed,  and  many  mul- 
berry-trees. There  was  a  great  volume  of  traffic 
on  the  level  road,  which  ever  increased,  and  at 
length  high  walls  appeared,  and  I  passed  into 
the  city  itself.  I  passed  into  a  city  of  a  hundred 
thousand  people,  congested,  teeming,  fetid,  a  city 
of  dried  mud  and  bricks,  resting  on  a  foundation 
of  the  refuse  of  centuries,  with  little  architectural 
merit,  with  no  vistas  within  or  without,  yet  with 
a  human,  living  interest  that  is  not  to  be  equalled 
in  the  whole  world.  It  is  Bokhara's  colour  that 
takes  the  eye.  This  is  a  wealthy  city,  a  great  cen- 
tre of  the  silk  trade,  and  thousands  of  her  people 
go  clad  in  rainbow  gowns  of  exceeding  fineness 
and  beauty.  The  poorer  wear  gowns  of  like  bril- 
liant hue,  but  of  a  cheap  Russian  material;  their 
vividness,  and  the  leavening  of  these  many  fine 
silks,  give  to  the  Bokharan  streets  a  matchless 
colouring. 

Then  there  are  the  men  themselves — for  the 
women  of  Bokhara  you  shall  not  see.  Predomi- 
nant are  the  Sarts — the  Bokhariots — in  white  tur- 
ban and  silken  gown,  city-dwellers  to  the  casual 
eye,  with  pale,  intelligent,  ultra-lascivious, 
bearded  faces,  effeminate,  yet  fanatic.  These 
crowd  the  bazaars,  many  astride  handsome  horses, 
or  spreading  carpets  on  the  open  spaces  before 
the  mosques,  sit  to  gossip.  When  the  muezzins 
call,  they  leave  their  tea  and  melons,  trooping  to 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   173 

prayer;  but  if  the  prayers  of  these  Sarts  of  Bok- 
hara avail  in  the  ears  of  Allah,  their  faces  do 
belie  them. 

The  Sart  is  not  a  Mongolian  type,  as  are  these 
tall,  unpolished  Turkomans  and  robust  Kirghiz 
who  pass  through  the  bazaars.  These  men  of 
the  desert,  with  their  fine  physique  and  open  face, 
are  good  to  look  on.  They  wear  sheepskin  hats 
and  rude  blouses;  their  religion,  too,  lacks  the 
subtlety  of  the  medresses;  yet  I  declare  their  sim- 
ple desert  invocations  to  be  of  a  sweeter  savour 
than  all  the  prayers  that  rise  from  this  fetid  and 
corrupt  city. 

The  Jews  of  Bokhara,  who  have  lived  within 
her  walls  from  time  immemorial,  are  said  to  num- 
ber eight  thousand.  Often  assailed  in  the  olden 
times,  tortured,  robbed,  killed,  they  have  never- 
theless held  their  own,  and  are  to-day  a  prosperous 
and  tolerated  community.  In  business  they  are 
held  in  high  esteem;  it  is  said  the  word  of  a 
Bokharan  Jew  is  a  bond,  and  indeed  the  words 
and  bearing  of  those  with  whom  I  dealt  impressed 
me.  To-day  he  still  may  not  bind  his  gown  with 
a  girdle,  but  with  string,  and  by  the  Emir's  edict 
there  is  enjoined  a  certain  shaving  of  hair  behind 
the  ears;  but  take  things  for  all  in  all,  the  Jew 
is  contented  in  Bokhara,  and  he  is  her  honest 
man. 

Afghans  mingle  in  the  throng  of  the  bazaars. 


174  THE   SHADOW-SHOW 

But  with  them  Bokhara  is  no  abiding  city;  they 
come  with  the  camel  caravans  from  Herat  and 
Kabul,  and  will  even  so  depart  again.  The  pres- 
ence here  of  Persians  is  not  so  easily  explained. 
What  do  these  Shiahs  in  this  holy  centre  of  Sun- 
nism?  In  the  past,  beautiful  Persian  women  were 
brought  to  Bokhara  as  slaves,  and  in  the  proud 
Sarts  their  blood  still  flows;  but  for  the  men  of 
Iran,  craven  and  schismatic,  Bokhara  can  hold 
naught  but  a  superb  contempt. 

Here  are  strange  people!  Hindus  with  their 
caste  marks,  natives  of  India,  who  have  no  word 
of  English,  who,  like  grey  friars  of  the  East,  steal 
about  in  prescribed  cap  and  gown.  There  are 
four  or  five  hundred  of  these  here,  without  their 
women,  living  mirthless  in  caravanserais  set  apart. 
They  are  moneylenders — a  trade  forbidden  to  the 
followers  of  Mahomet — and  have  come,  without 
exception,  from  the  city  or  district  of  Shikarpur, 
in  Sind.  Their  fathers,  and  to  the  same  number^ 
were  in  Bokhara  thirty-five  years  ago.  Schuyler 
describes  them.  In  his  day,  too,  they  knew  no 
English,  but  then,  as  now,  "Shikarpur,  Shikarpur" 
was  on  their  tongues.  They  trade  with  small  cap- 
itals, turning  their  money  often,  and  earn,  it  is 
thought,  25  per  cent.,  but  they  are  secretive  and 
hard  to  fathom.  You  will  find  these  men  again, 
in  their  sombre  dress,  in  the  bazaars  of  Tashkent, 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND  175 

and  always  from  "Shikarpur,"  where  this  special- 
ized profession  must  be  now  firmly  set. 

Here  is  a  large  caravanserai  of  a  better  condi- 
tion. In  it  dwell  some  eighty  Peshawaris — Brit- 
ish Indians,  Mahometans,  men  of  some  status, 
among  whom  are  English  scholars.  They  are,  to 
a  man,  agents  in  tea,  covering  not  only  this  city 
but  the  trade  of  Central  Asia.  It  is  Chinese  tea 
they  deal  in — green  tea  from  Shanghai,  r.  univer- 
sal beverage  here;  but  that  the  men  of  Peshawar 
should  sell  Chinese  tea  in  Bokhara,  and  none  but 
they,  is  one  of  the  strangest  bits  of  specialization 
in  commerce. 

Outside  the  city  walls,  at  meat  in  an  upper 
chamber,  sat  three  Englishmen.  This  was  surely 
strangest  of  all.  A  stray  Russian  or  two  there 
might  happen,  but  that  the  population  of  Bokhara 
should  number  three  English  wool-buyers — let 
this  quaint  fact  be  given  to  the  world !  They  fell 
on  my  English  neck — the  third  in  two  years — and, 
placing  before  me  kosher  meat,  bread,  and  dried 
apricots  of  the  oasis,  we  talked  until  the  sun  set. 

Bokhara  is  a  protectorate  under  Russia.  To 
her  Emir  is  given  a  measure  of  self-government 
and  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  his  own 
people,  whom  he  rules  through  his  kushbegi,  or 
viceroy.  He  himself,  son  of  that  traitorous  Emir 
who  led  the  Russians  into  his  own  city,  is  not 


176  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

loved  of  the  Bokhariots.  He  knows  this;  they 
say  he  has  not  yet  entered  his  capital. 

Bokhara,  the  holy  city,  is  no  beauty  spot.  Be- 
hind those  crenellated  walls  stretch  no  vistas;  the 
mosques  are  not  fine,  their  mosaics  are  sadly  dam- 
aged; there  is  no  architecture  of  note.  One  high 
brick  tower  alone  stands  out,  from  whose  battle- 
ments, within  a  century,  two  Englishmen  were 
hurled.  There  are  many  medresses,  where  elderly, 
bearded  students  from  the  confines  of  mid-Asia 
come  to  hear  exposition  of  the  Scriptures,  for  the 
learning,  no  less  than  the  holiness,  of  Bokhara  is 
far-famed.  But  the  first  and  last  of  Bokhara  is 
her  human  interest.  It  is  the  vivid  crowd  in  their 
silks,  thronging  bazaars  and  mosques  and  tea- 
shops,  that  makes  this  city  of  the  plains  unique 
in  all  the  world. 

I  gave  a  supper-party  at  Bokhara — a  cham- 
pagne supper.  The  little  hotel  at  Kagan  was  hard 
pressed  to  provide  a  menu,  but  the  owner,  a  lady 
of  the  Baltic  Provinces,  rose  to  a  great  occasion. 
There  were  present  the  three  English — the  only 
domiciled  English  in  Turkestan — two  Belgians, 
of  official  standing  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  a  worthy 
Jew  from  the  South  of  Russia.  We  were  seven. 

The  wine  having  circled,  I  stood  and  raised  my 
glass.  I  said :  "Gentlemen,  there  is  only  one  toast 
to-night.  It  is  to  Russia,  and  her  great  work  in 
Turkestan.  We  wish  her  right  well.  Whether 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   177 

she  has  got  here  all  she  hoped  for,  it  is  not  for  me 
to  say.  Her  deficits  in  this  country  are  still  enor- 
mous, and  it  will  take  much  irrigation,  much  cot- 
ton-growing, and  many  lamb-skins  to  bring  about 
a  financial  balance.  She  is  fortunate  in  the  na- 
tives, who  are  contented,  and  will  give  her  no 
trouble.  She  need  not  have,  she  will  not  have, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  political  trouble  with  any  one ; 
certainly  not  with  us.  She  will  be  able  to  develop 
in  peace.  Having  put  her  hand  to  the  plough,  she 
will  now  carry  through  her  big  work,  a  work,  in 
my  humble  opinion,  that  is  for  the  ultimate  benefit 
of  humanity."  *  (Applause,  during  which  the 
lady  of  the  Baltic  Provinces  approaches  with  wild 
ducks,  in  her  face  the  look  of  incipient  victory.) 
One  of  those  long,  empty  trains  that  lumber 
for  ever  out  of  Krasnovodsk  to  traverse  the  Turk- 
oman desert,  left  Kagan  toward  midnight,  and  in 
the  freshness  of  an  early  morning  I  alighted  at 
the  station  of  Samarkand.  The  city  lay  some 
miles  away.  I  followed  a  rising  road:  there  was 
heavy  traffic  of  native  carriages,  of  horsemen,  of 
laden  camels,  and  a  Russian  regiment  of  cavalry 
recruits  galloped  by.  I  came  to  the  Russian  town, 
and  passed  under  avenues  of  tremendous  trees. 
Planted  when  the  city  fell,  more  than  forty  years 
ago,  those  avenues  will  create  for  Samarkand  a 
fresh  renown. 

aAlas!  poor  Russia. 


178  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

At  the  crest  of  the  rise,  on  breezy  uplands,  all 
in  view  of  snowy  ranges,  lay  the  ancient,  the  im- 
perial city.  Delhi!  I  cried,  as  the  vista  opened; 
Delhi,  of  the  open  Maidan  and  the  imperial  tra- 
ditions. Yet  a  colder  Delhi,  open  and  wind- 
swept, for  this  is  high  above  the  fetid  and  clois- 
tered Bokhara;  the  very  Sarts  look  manly,  and 
the  Khirgiz  of  the  steppe,  seen  here  in  numbers, 
are  in  radiant  health. 

But  look  around!  See  these  fanes  of  beauty, 
these  deep  colours  flashing  in  the  sun!  Under 
this  dome  of  blue  is  the  tomb  of  Tamerlane.  He 
lies  in  the  crypt,  beneath  that  block  of  black  jas- 
per. One  of  humanity's  greatest,  he  died  in  his 
city  of  Samarkand  in  1405,  Master  of  Asia. 
Ninth  in  succession  from  Genghis  Khan,  and 
great-grandfather  of  Baber,  who  conquered  India, 
Tamerlane  linked  Mongol  with  Mogul;  he  gave 
distinction  to  the  greatest  line  of  warrior-states- 
men the  world  has  known. 

The  city  in  his  day,  one  great  mosaic,  was  fit 
setting  for  this  imperial  figure.  His  own  works 
to  that  end  are  still  seen.  It  is  true  the  glorious 
tomb  of  him  was  not  yet  built;  but  his  embellish- 
ments of  the  Shah-i-Zindeh,  whose  scrolls  and 
arabesques  are  even  yet  in  pristine  perfection  are 
extant,  as  are  the  ruins  of  Bibi  Khanum,  that  im- 
mense mausoleum  to  his  beloved  Queen. 

Stand  with  me  in  the  Registan  of  Samarkand 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   179 

— ne  plus  ultra  of  world  travel — a  small  square 
of  seventy  yards,  open  as  to  one  side  to  the  ba- 
zaars, bounded  as  to  three  by  mosques,  high  and 
square  and  old,  whose  fronts,  covered  in  mosaic 
patterning  of  blue,  yellow,  green,  and  white,  flash 
the  autumn  sun  from  a  thousand  facets. 

These  mosques  of  the  Registan,  with  their 
medresses^  are  not  from  Timur's  day.  Replacing 
earlier  buildings,  they  date  back  but  two  hundred 
years;  yet  their  colouring,  that  is  now  a  lost  art, 
is  fast  crumbling,  and  one  must  pass  into  their 
open  courts,  that  lie  behind,  to  view  them  in  finest 
preservation.  I  stood  on  a  Friday  in  the  great 
court  of  the  mosque  of  Tila-Kar;  the  mullahs 
cried  on  Allah,  and  the  men  of  Samarkand  knelt 
at  His  holy  name.  The  sky  was  blue,  the  face 
of  the  mosque  and  the  walls  of  the  courtyard 
sparkled  in  their  rich  hues,  the  silken  gowns  and 
praying  carpets  of  the  worshippers  hid  all  the 
earth.  There  was  nothing  at  all  but  colour,  yet 
ungarish,  a  perfect  whole,  and  I  knew  that  I 
looked  on  the  world's  best. 

The  tiles  of  Samarkand  are  from  the  Persians 
— those  rare  and  facile  artificers.  The  scroll  and 
the  colour  scheme  is  Persian  or  Arabian  always — 
one  sees  here  no  Chinese  influence ;  blues,  light  and 
dark,  yellow,  green,  and  white,  are  used,  red  is 
rarely  seen,  and  black  not  later  than  the  time  of 
Timur.  But  these  are  colours  indeed!  Their 


180  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

deep,  rich  glaze,  compared  with  the  modern,  tells 
of  a  great  art  that  is  dead.  No  less  than  Titian, 
master  colourist,  these  old  Persians  took  a  secret 
with  them  to  the  grave.  But  for  how  long  are 
these  beautiful  things'?  These  tiles,  of  so  royal 
a  facing,  are  but  a  small,  poorish  brick;  they  do 
not  endure,  and  Samarkand's  glories  are  crumbling 
to  the  dust. 

Pondering  these  things,  I  came  out  on  a  sandy 
waste,  the  ancient  burying-place  of  the  dead.  The 
sun  was  setting,  and  I  turned  to  gaze  over  the  city 
— this  city  of  a  dream.  Near  by  were  the  tombs 
of  the  Shah-i-Zindeh ;  yonder,  above  the  trees,  rose 
the  blue  dome  of  the  Emperor's  mausoleum;  be- 
low me  lay  the  supposititious  and  ever-lengthen- 
ing tomb  of  Daniel;  in  the  city  itself  stood  out  the 
ruins  of  Bibi  Khanum  and  the  three  mosques  of 
Registan.  And  all  around  me  lay  the  dead  of 
Samarkand,  a  great  company.  On  these  breezy 
uplands,  in  view  of  the  far-off  hills,  tens  of  thou- 
sands are  lying  with  their  prince. 

A  dream  city  truly!  For  these  things  are  fast 
melting  away.  Even  in  the  last  years  the  mosaic 
minaret  has  fallen  from  Timur's  tomb,  and  the 
inlaid  cupola  from  the  mosque  of  Ishrat  Khan. 
These  fell  to  a  slight  shock;  the  next,  as  like  as 
not,  may  level  Samarkand  with  the  dust. 

God  knows  what  were  its  one-time  splendours ! 


THE  DREAM  CITY  OF  SAMARKAND   181 

What  the  old  travellers  saw!  It  is  even  now  a 
treasure  place  of  the  world,  and  I  see  it  crum- 
bling before  my  eyes.  Its  glories, 

"The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples," 

are  melting  into  thin  air.  The  day  is  not  distant 
when  they  will  be  gone. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WANDERINGS    IN    SOUTH    AMERICA 

AMONGST  the  ugly  happenings  in  our  Empire's 
history  was  the  loss  of  the  Argentine.  We  draw 
a  veil  at  times,  and  you  will  hardly  find  these 
things  in  our  school  books;  but  about  one  hun- 
dred years  ago  a  British  general  and  his  troops 
were  driven  from  Buenos  Aires,  a  British  town, 
by  three  thousand  Argentines,  and  the  Home  Gov- 
ernment, beset  as  it  then  was  with  trouble,  ordered 
our  withdrawal  from  the  country. 

Thus  we  lost  the  Argentine,  and  who  knows 
what  else  on  this  continent.  Firmly  seated  there 
during  the  nineteenth  century,  Britain  had  to-day 
been  arbiter  in  South  America.  As  for  the  Argen- 
tine, adjacent  territories  had  fallen  into  her  as 
comets  fall  into  the  sun;  within  her  borders  had 
now  lain  Uruguay,  Paraguay,  Bolivia,  and  South- 
ern Brazil. 

And  what  a  country  to  lose!  One  travels  in 
the  train  for  days  over  plains  more  fertile  than 
Kansas  or  Nebraska.  As  I  have  watched  these 
roll  past,  with  their  wealth  of  maize  and  wheat, 
their  endless  herds  of  horses,  cattle,  and  sheep, 

182 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA       183 

I  have  shouted  out  in  anger  against  the  fates 
which  drove  us  from  this  fair  land. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  the  law  of  compensation. 
Had  we  owned  this  country,  diverting  thither  our 
people,  our  capital,  for  a  hundred  years,  other 
parts  of  the  Empire  had  suffered;  Australia  and 
New  Zealand  would  not  be  where  they  are  to-day. 
As  it  is,  we  have  a  big  stake  in  Argentina,  our  in- 
vestments there  figuring  at  £400,000,000.  To 
this  extent  the  past  has  been  retrieved. 

The  English  have  not  gone  to  the  Argentine  in 
numbers,  but  about  seventy  years  ago  some  thou- 
sands of  Irish  settled  there.  They  took  up  land, 
and  throve,  and  are  now,  in  the  third  generation, 
very  well  off.  Retaining  a  strong  accent,  and  the 
shrewd,  rather  wizened  physiognomy  of  their  race, 
they  have  drifted  in  sentiment  far  from  us.  To 
all  intents  they  are  now  Argentines,  and  should  a 
Senor  Murphy  wed  a  Sefiorita  O'Flannigan,  it  is 
no  British  Consul  who  ties  the  civil  knot. 

This  same  Buenos  Aires  is  become  the  South 
American  centre  of  gravity.  It  is  a  wealthy  city 
of  1,600,000  people,  partly  Italian,  growing  fast, 
and  to  me  least  interesting  of  the  world's  great 
towns.  Its  people  are  crude,  but  strenuous;  on 
their  faces  is  deeply  written  the  lust  of  greed. 

I  dislike  Buenos  Aires,  but  am  not  blind  to  its 
future.  It  will  grow  this  century,  as  Winnipeg 
and  Hankow  will  grow.  Because  of  a  shallow 


184  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

water  frontage  it  may  never  rank  with  the  great- 
est ports,  but  in  population  is  destined  to  be  a 
world  centre. 

You  may  sail  from  Buenos  Aires  one  thousand 
miles  up  the  River  Parana,  and  come  to  Para- 
guay. This  is  a  quaint,  undeveloped  State,  that 
reached  three  hundred  years  ago,  under  the  Jesuits, 
more  civilization  than  it  can  now  claim.  But  the 
Argentine  railways  are  reaching  out,  and  in  time 
Paraguay  will  be  brought  in  touch  with  the  outer 
world. 

About  thirty  years  ago  a  number  of  people 
left  Queensland  for  Paraguay,  to  start  a  socialist 
colony.  This  was  a  failure.  Practical  socialism, 
for  some  of  these  Australians,  proved  too  altru- 
istic; but  it  is  fair  to  say  the  chief  reasons  for 
failure  were  the  false  estimates  of  the  leader  on 
whose  advice  they  had  come,  a  lack  of  capital, 
and  the  great  distance  of  their  colony  from  the 
markets.  A  second  colony  was  started,  leavened 
by  idealists  from  England,  and  promises  mod- 
erate success;  in  1905,  when  I  was  in  Paraguay, 
it  was  getting  on  its  legs. 

To-day  Paraguay  exports  cattle,  timber,  yerba 
tea,  and  oranges.  Between  it  and  Brazil,  on  the 
Iguazu  River,  are  falls,  only  exceeded  in  gran- 
deur by  those  on  the  Zambesi  and  at  Niagara, 
and  as  yet  visited  by  few  Europeans. 

The  Paraguayans  have  a  deep  Indian  strain, 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      185 

and  stand  low  in  the  South  American  scale. 
Revolutions  and  fighting  in  the  streets  of  Asun- 
cion, the  little  capital,  still  occupy  much  of  their 
time.  Their  finance  is  rotten  as  their  politics. 
When  I  was  in  Paraguay  the  paper  dollar  stood 
at  eight  cents — having  gradually  fallen  from  a 
gold  basis.  A  recent  revolution  had  given  the 
currency  its  death-blow.  On  the  eve  of  the  out- 
break, with  a  keen  prescience  of  his  coming  politi- 
cal extinction,  the  Finance  Minister  had  possessed 
himself  of  the  Government  printing  machine,  and 
was  known  to  have  worked  far  into  the  night 
printing  currency  "on  his  own."  Next  day,  in 
the  excitement  of  revolution,  he  disappeared. 

Paraguay  has  had  three  dictators  of  imperish- 
able fame. 

The  first  was  Dr.  Francia — to  me,  greatest  of 
all  South  American  dictators.  When  Paraguay 
threw  off  Spain,  in  1815 — for  Francia  came  to 
power  the  year  Napoleon  fell — he  became  her  first 
President.  He  was  said  to  be  the  son  of  an  In- 
dian woman  by  a  French  father,  hence  "Francia," 
but  deep  mystery  surrounded  his  birth  and  early 
life.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Cor- 
doba, in  Argentina,  was  a  Doctor  of  Law,  and  in 
1815  was  fifty -five  years  of  age.  For  twenty-five 
years  he  was  absolute  ruler  of  Paraguay,  so  much 
so  that,  when  he  died,  an  old,  old  man,  he  left 
no  rival.  Those  who  failed  to  honour  him,  who 


186  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

in  any  degree  asserted  themselves,  were  got  rid 
of.  Executions  were  wholesale.  Standing  in 
front  of  his  house  of  a  morning,  smoking  a  cigar, 
he  looked  out  over  the  plaza  and  gave  the  signal 
for  the  volleys.  In  private  life  he  was  modest 
and  retiring,  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  was  a  kind 
friend,  and  scrupulously  honest  with  the  State's 
finances ;  but  where  power  or  ambition  entered,  he 
was  a  fiend,  showing  no  mercy.  Afraid,  in  his 
later  years,  of  assassination,  when  he  passed 
through  the  streets  of  Asuncion  all  were  bidden 
to  stand  facing  the  wall;  those  who  disobeyed 
were  shot  down  by  his  body-guard.  Coming  sud- 
denly upon  this  little  figure,  dressed  in  black, 
women  and  children  were  often  heard  to  scream. 
He  ruled  as  never  man  ruled. 

He  died  quietly  on  Christmas  Day,  1840, 
eighty  years  old.  Some  years  ago,  in  Asuncion, 
lived  a  very  old  woman,  a  lace  seller,  who  remem- 
bered the  day  of  Dr.  Francia's  funeral.  He  was 
buried  in  the  cathedral  with  great  pomp.  Next 
day,  the  flagstones  covering  the  tomb  were  found 
strewn  about  and  the  body  had  disappeared.  The 
common  people  believed — believe  to  this  day — 
that  he  was  taken  by  the  devil ;  but  the  alligators 
in  the  river  close  by,  to  whom  his  corpse  was  un- 
doubtedly thrown,  could  have  told  a  different 
tale.  It  was  many  years  before  the  fear  of  his 
almost  supernatural  power  died  away. 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      187 

He  was  followed  by  another  great  dictator- 
Lopez.  Lopez  came  to  power  as  a  middle-aged 
man — a  schoolmaster,  if  I  recollect.  With  schol- 
arly leanings,  and  of  a  private  life  the  most  re- 
spectable, he,  too,  was  absolutely  upright  with 
the  public  money.  I  picture  him  as  short  and 
stout,  gazing  at  one  benignantly  over  spectacles, 
not  unlike  Phiz's  prints  of  Pickwick.  Coming  to 
autocracy  late  in  life,  he  nevertheless  developed 
lust  of  power  and  ambition  to  a  remarkable 
degree. 

For  many  years  he  ruled  with  a  rod  iron  as 
Francia's.  Those  who  thwarted  him,  who  con- 
spired, who  asserted  their  wills  in  any  degree, 
went  inexorably  to  their  death.  Hundreds,  prob- 
ably thousands,  were  thus  put  away  by  Lopez. 
He  died  in  his  bed,  absolute  master  of  Para- 
guay. 

To  him  succeeded  his  son,  the  younger  Lopez. 
This  was  a  man  of  different  calibre.  Not  lacking 
in  ability,  he  was  weak,  vain,  and  a  deep  drinker 
— antithesis  of  those  two  fathomless  men  who 
ruled  before  him.  As  envoy  to  France  during  his 
father's  dictatorship,  he  met  there  a  woman  who 
was  to  exercise  an  extraordinary  influence  on 
South  America.  This  was  Madame  Lynch,  widow 
of  a  French  officer,  by  birth  an  Irish  girl.  She 
went  with  Lopez  to  Paraguay  as  his  mistress. 
There  her  character  developed;  Lopez,  who  after 


188  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

some  years  became  dictator  in  his  father's  shoes, 
was  as  wax  in  her  hands.  Exercising  great  power, 
and  with  a  hellish  cruelty,  she  wreaked  vengeance 
on  those  who  had  slighted  her.  Hundreds  were 
done  to  death  by  her  orders.  Her  ambition  for 
Lopez  was  military  glory;  playing  on  his  vanity, 
she  involved  him  in  war  successively,  then  simul- 
taneously, with  Uruguay,  Argentina,  and  Brazil. 
From  1867-70  this  Irishwoman  plunged  a  large 
part  of  the  continent  into  bloodshed.  The  men 
of  Paraguay  fought  like  demons,  Lopez  himself 
displaying  valour  and  skill  in  many  battles. 
When  the  war  finally  ended,  through  exhaustion, 
young  boys  were  still  living,  and  a  few  men  over 
seventy,  but  the  manhood  of  Paraguay  had  prac- 
tically ceased  to  exist.  The  dictator  lay  dead  on 
the  field. 

Having  written  her  name  large  on  the  page 
of  history,  Madame  Lynch  retired  to  Buenos 
Aires,  and  died  there  not  many  years  ago. 

In  the  summer  months,  after  the  melting  of 
the  snow,  one  can  cross  the  Andes  from  Argen- 
tina into  Chile.  The  summit  of  the  pass  is  at 
12,000  feet,  and  on  the  boundary  line,  erected 
by  Chile,  stands  a  colossal  figure  of  Christ.  Some 
years  ago,  when  this  figure  was  unveiled,  the 
ceremony  was  made  the  occasion  for  a  demonstra- 
tion, and  many  political  and  religious  personages 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      189 

from  Santiago  attended.  Afterwards  champagne 
was  served,  and  having  drunk  heartily,  the  com- 
pany proceeded  to  break  the  empty  bottles  against 
the  statue  for  luck. 

There  are  quite  a  number  of  statues  of  Christ 
in  Chile.  Their  erection  has  been  coincident  with 
a  marked  deterioration  in  the  national  character. 
From  hearsay  I  had  expected  to  find  the  Chilenos 
rather  above  the  other  peoples  of  South  America. 
I  came  away  disillusioned.  They  have  the  best 
navy  and  army,  no  doubt,  but  in  the  things  which 
really  count — honesty  and  character — they  are 
lacking. 

Much  of  this  deterioration,  I  believe,  is  due  to 
that  accursed  heritage,  the  nitrate  fields.  In  the 
old  days  Chile  was  poor  but  self-reliant,  working 
hard  to  make  ends  meet.  Then  came  the  success- 
ful war  with  Peru  and  the  annexation  of  Tara- 
paca.  With  Tarapaca  came  the  nitrates,  and 
from  these,  as  export  tax,  the  Chilian  treasury 
was  soon  receiving  some  one  and  a  half  millions 
sterling  annually. 

This  large  unearned  increment  debauched  the 
little  community.  With  such  a  revenue  to  cut  up, 
politics  became  a  thriving  business  at  Santiago; 
senators,  deputies,  and  their  friends  and  partisans 
went  into  politics  for  what  they  could  make,  and 
hundreds  of  parasites  grew  to  batten  on  the  reve- 
nue. Public  money  was  squandered,  the  State 


190  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

robbed,  and  an  era  of  corruption  set  in.  It  is  true 
that  Chile  has  never  defaulted,  nor  do  I  think  she 
will,  but  her  internal  currency  is  rotten.  The  gold 
dollar  note,  when  I  was  in  Chile,  was  worth  nine- 
pence. 

The  climate  of  Central  Chile  is  very  delightful. 
As  against  a  small  rainfall,  there  are  streams  fed 
by  never-failing  Andean  snows,  and  under  judi- 
cious irrigation  the  coastal  valleys  yield  bounte- 
ously. Chilian  wines  are  good,  flowers  there  are 
glorious,  with  care  the  fruit  might  be  unexcelled; 
at  roadside  stations,  in  the  seasons,  peasant  women 
display  piles  of  figs,  peaches,  nectarines,  and  pears 
most  fair  to  look  on,  but,  through  careless  culti- 
vation, lacking  in  flavour.  The  watermelon  crop 
is  gigantic.  But  the  palm  must  be  given  to  the 
Chilian  grape ;  those  of  Huasco  and  Coquimbo  are 
such  as  Californian  vineyards  cannot  rival. 

At  the  hot  baths  of  Cauquenes,  where  sciatica 
took  me,  the  vegetation,  the  surroundings  were 
those  of  old  Cape  Colony.  I  might  have  been 
living  outside  Paarl  or  Stellenbosch.  Beyond  the 
mountains,  on  the  plains  of  Argentina,  all  was 
life  and  energy;  but  here,  in  this  quiet  valley,  was 
only  repose.  After  the  midday  meal  the  world 
slept.  I,  who  did  not  sleep,  strolled  lazily  under 
the  oak  avenues  or  sat  in  the  old  garden  dreaming. 
For  days,  as  I  dreamed,  a  verse  eluded  me.  Long 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      191 

after,  when  he  who  wrote  it  had  passed  to  the 
grave,  it  came  to  me  :— 

"Here,   where  the  world   is   quiet: 
Here,   where   all   trouble  seems 

Dead,   winds   and   spent   waves   riot 
In  doubtful  dream  of  dreams; 

I  watch  the  green  fields  growing 

For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 

For  harvest  time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams." 

Such  was  Cauquenes,  of  Central  Chile. 

There  are  majestic  views  of  the  Andes  from 
many  spots  in  Chile,  and  Aconcagua — highest 
point  in  the  New  World — can  be  seen  on  a  clear 
day  from  the  bay  of  Valparaiso.  The  traveller 
southwards  will  find  beauty  of  another  kind — 
the  park  of  the  late  Madame  Cousino,  at  Lota. 
Here,  on  a  bold  headland,  is  a  landscape  in  which 
flowers  and  foliage  mingle  in  gorgeous  profusion; 
half  nature,  half  art,  it  is  a  thing  of  real  excel- 
lence. Beneath  this  spot,  and  stretching  out  under 
the  ocean,  lies  the  coal  seam  from  which  the 
Cousino  family  won  the  largest  fortune  of  Chile. 

As  one  sails  still  southwards  the  climate  be- 
comes wet  and  ever  colder.  The  coast  is  rugged 
and  broken,  and  mists  often  hide  the  land. 
Wrapped  heavily  up,  I  stood  shivering,  and 
watched  the  steamer  enter  the  Straits  of  Magel- 
lan. Here,  though  bitterly  cold,  it  was  more 
sheltered.  The  mists  lifted ;  that  night  we  passed 
between  snow-clad  mountain  ranges,  their  purity 


192  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

of  outline  heightened  in  the  brilliant  moonlight. 

At  daybreak  the  coasts  were  again  low-lying. 
We  dropped  anchor  off  Punta  Arenas,  capital  of 
Chilian  Patagonia  and  most  southerly  town  in 
the  world ;  across  the  straits  lay  Tierra  del  Fuego. 

It  was  a  frosty  autumn  morning,  but  as  yet  no 
snow  had  fallen.  Landing  at  the  wharf  of  Punta 
Arenas,  I  started  rapidly  for  the  interior  of  Pata- 
gonia. This  was  new  ground  to  me,  and  as  ever 
on  these  occasions  I  was  mentally  exalted;  I  fan- 
cied myself  on  the  eve  of  great  things — another 
Valdivia,  another  Almagro. 

When  I  had  walked  about  two  miles,  heading 
due  N.E.  by  N.,  a  hoarse  droning  sound  came  up 
from  the  straits;  the  steamer's  siren  was  calling 
passengers  on  board.  My  day-dream  was  over; 
turning  my  back  on  the  interior,  I  walked  rapidly 
back  to  the  wharf. 

Punta  Arenas  began  as  a  gold-mining  centre. 
It  was  started,  strange  to  say,  by  Austrians,  who 
came  to  work  the  alluvial  gravels  of  Tierra  del 
Fuego.  The  richest  of  the  gravel  is  now  ex- 
hausted, but  the  winter  storms  still  concentrate 
this  material  on  the  beaches,  enabling  some  hun- 
dreds of  men,  during  the  summer,  to  earn  a  pre- 
carious living.  Gold-dredging  on  a  large  scale 
has  been  tried  on  Tierra  del  Fuego,  but  has  failed. 

Several  thousand  Austrians  now  make  Punta 
Arenas  their  headquarters.  A  number  of  these  are 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      193 

still  gold-washers,  but  more  regular  work  is  found 
in  wool-shearing,  or  on  the  big  sheep  farms  of  the 
Tierra  or  the  mainland.  Sheep-farming  has  really 
made  Punta  Arenas;  it  is  now  the  centre  of  a 
great  grazing  area,  and  already  equipped  with  two 
freezing  works. 

Tierra  del  Fuego,  a  No-Man's-Land  till  gold- 
washing  and  sheep-farming  drew  there  a  small 
population,  belongs  in  part  to  Argentina,  in  part 
to  Chile.  A  great  man  has  already  written  his 
mark  on  its  history.  Between  twenty  and  thirty 
years  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  richest  gold  finds, 
Julius  Popper  became  despot  of  Tierra  del  Fuego. 
This  man  was  a  Roumanian  by  birth ;  entering  the 
Russian  army  as  a  private  soldier,  he  in  time  rose 
to  be  captain.  He  is  next  heard  of  at  Buenos 
Ayres,  securing  from  the  Government  Fuegian 
mining  right;  setting  up  his  headquarters  at  Se- 
bastian Bay,  he  brought  out  the  first  Austrians  to 
work  his  concessions. 

He  found  gold  in  plenty,  and  squandered  it 
regally.  It  is  said  he  acted  as  unofficial  governor 
for  the  Argentine,  but  was  too  formidable  for  his 
power  to  be  questioned.  He  did  as  he  liked, 
among  other  things  making  an  issue  of  gold  coins. 
The  Fuegian  Indians  he  regarded  as  animals; 
when  angered,  he  would  go  out  and  shoot  them 
down  as  one  would  shoot  birds.  Once,  finding 
six  Indians  working  gold  gravel  for  another  white 


194  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

man,  he  shot  them  all  with  his  own  hand.  Fear- 
ing attack  from  the  Indians,  or  discovery  of  his 
workings,  he  built  a  tower,  where,  telescope  in 
hand,  he  sat  for  hours  each  day  scanning  the 
horizon. 

Hearing  of  mineral  richness,  prospecting  bands 
came  over,  ever  and  anon,  from  the  Chilian  side 
or  from  the  mainland.  These  he  always  disarmed 
or  sent  back;  I  have  heard  it  said  that  some  he 
shot  down. 

At  last  there  came  a  band,  among  whom  was 
a  determined  Frenchman.  These  men  Popper 
disarmed  as  usual,  and  despatched,  over  barren 
and  hostile  country,  into  Chilian  territory.  By 
a  miracle  they  escaped  with  their  lives.  But  the 
Frenchman  vowed  Popper's  death.  Following 
him,  shortly  after  this,  to  Buenos  Ayres,  he  is 
known  to  have  tracked  him  to  his  hotel.  There 
is  no  proof  of  these  things — one  can  but  piece 
together.  Next  morning  Popper  came  downstairs 
and  drank  his  coffee;  an  hour  later  he  lay  dead. 
Leader  of  men,  strong,  unscrupulous,  the  despot 
of  Tierra  del  Fuego  had  gone  to  his  reckoning. 

Northern  Chile  is  a  land  where  it  never  rains, 
possibly  not  an  inch  in  a  century,  and  is  therefore 
a  desert.  But  note,  again,  the  law  of  compensa- 
tion. There  is  no  rain,  no  green  thing;  but  be- 
cause there  is  no  rain,  deposits  and  chemical  salts 
in  the  earth,  such  as  guano,  nitrates,  borax,  and 


WANDERINGS  IN   SOUTH  AMERICA      195 

copper  carbonates,  are  not  dissolved  nor  washed 
away,  and  this  desert  region  has  therefore  yielded 
great  wealth. 

Beyond  this  desert,  in  the  interior,  lies  the 
extensive  though  little  known  country  of  Bolivia, 
called  after  Simon  Bolivar,  the  great  Liberator — 
the  George  Washington  of  South  America — who 
freed  much  of  the  continent  from  the  misrule  of 
Spain.  The  misrule,  be  it  noted,  is  still  there, 
though  Spain  has  vanished.  But  it  is  more  seemly 
to  see  a  country  misruled  by  its  own  people  than. 
by  strangers,  and  to  this  extent  Bolivar's  heroic 
acts  have  borne  fruit. 

The  Liberator  accepted  the  position  of  Bolivia's 
first  President;  after  a  short  rule,  bigger  affairs 
required  his  departure  for  Peru,  and  he  did  not 
return. 

Bolivia's  most  picturesque  ruler  was  Melgarejo, 
who  rose  from  peasant  boy  to  be  successful  gen- 
eral, and  finally  dictator.  During  his  time,  about 
the  year  1864,  the  British  Minister  to  Bolivia 
was  found  to  have  taken  part  in  some  internal 
political  question,  aimed  possibly  at  Melgarejo's 
power.  The  story  runs  that  the  President  ordered 
him  to  be  strapped  to  a  mule,  facing  its  tail,  and 
lashed  out  of  the  capital;  but  an  old  American, 
living  in  Oruro,  who  in  those  days  was  Melgare- 
jo's coachman,  gave  this  tale  the  lie.  The  Min- 
ister was  handed  his  papers,  he  was  asked  to  leave 


196  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  country,  and  he  went.  This  insult,  report 
says,  so  enraged  Queen  Victoria,  that  she  blotted 
Bolivia  from  the  map;  and  it  was  only  in  1919, 
after  an  interval  of  forty-five  years,  that  we  were 
again  represented  at  La  Paz  by  a  Minister. 

Malgarejo,  having  made  the  country  too  hot  to 
hold  him,  fled  to  Peru  with  a  handsome  woman 
and  considerable  booty.  He  was  afterwards  as- 
sassinated in  Lima. 

The  far  interior  and  trans-Andean  Bolivia  is 
low-lying  and  unhealthy.  Its  forests  yield  rubber 
in  increasing  quantity,  which  mostly  finds  outlet 
down  the  Amazon.  The  valuable  Acre  territory, 
rich  in  rubber,  was  sold  some  years  ago  by  Bolivia 
to  Brazil  for  two  millions  sterling.  About  the 
same  time  a  territorial  deal  with  Chile  brought  in 
a  further  half-million. 

With  two-and-a-half  millions  liquid  in  its  treas- 
ury, Bolivia  made  a  resolution.  It  was  deter- 
mined that  all  this  money  be  spent  on  railways, 
and  with  this  in  view,  the  Government  entered 
into  a  comprehensive  financial  and  railway  deal 
with  New  York  bankers. 

But  human  nature  is  weak,  Bolivian  politicians 
rapacious,  and  I  venture  to  guess  there  will  be 
gigantic  leakages.  It  was  told  at  La  Paz  that  a 
high  personage,  whose  longings  turn  towards 
Paris,  had  already  cut  into  the  fund  for  an  im- 
mense slice. 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      197 

The  South  American  politician  is  a  stickler  for 
etiquette.  He  may  rob  the  treasury,  it  is  true, 
but  he  will  do  so  in  a  well-fitting  frock-coat. 
His  manners  are  charming,  and  he  alone,  in  this 
continent,  wears  the  tall  hat.  Up  in  the  little 
Andean  capital,  smartly  turned  out  men  of  this 
type  are  now  working  their  will  on  Bolivia's  nest- 
egg- 

The  centre  of  energy  in  Bolivia — the  mining 
region — is  the  plateau,  at  a  height  of  over  12,000 
feet.  Here,  over  two  hundred  miles  apart,  lie 
Sucre  and  La  Paz — one  official,  the  other  actual, 
capital.  The  location  of  La  Paz,  lying  in  the 
shade  of  Illimani,  and  near  to  Sorata,  is  indeed 
striking. 

But  the  strangest  town  of  Bolivia — of  all  the 
New  World — is  Potosi.  It  lies  at  the  base  of 
Potosi — that  mountain  whose  discovery  altered 
the  history  of  the  world.  It  was  in  this  wise : — > 
In  the  year  1545,  an  Indian  found  silver  veins  in 
the  mountaiij.  These  were  so  rich  that  their  fame 
reached  Pizarro  at  Lima,  and  conquistadores  came 
to  Potosi,  to  annex  the  mines  for  the  King  of 
Spain. 

They  yielded  fabulously.  The  one-fifth  roy- 
alty payable  to  the  King  amounted,  in  the  first 
fifty  years  alone,  to  two  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
million  sterling.  It  was  this  huge  revenue  from 
Potosi,  more  than  from  Mexico  and  all  the  Span- 


198  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

ish  Main,  which  set  Spain  at  the  head  of  Europe. 
But  for  this  wealth  she  would  have  sunk  centuries 
before  she  did;  history  is  clear  on  that  point. 
With  this  revenue  pouring  in,  Spain  overawed, 
her  poorer  neighbours,  she  gained  vast  prestige, 
she  bought  the  friendship  of  the  Church,  and  of 
its  brutal  lever,  the  Inquisition,  and  she  acquired 
and  consolidated  her  Western  Empire. 

But  for  Potosi,  Spain's  dealings  with  South 
America  had  perhaps  ended  with  a  few  bands  of 
adventurers,  who,  finding  no  second  Inca  treasure, 
had  departed  in  disillusion,  leaving  that  continent 
to  France,  Holland,  and  England;  but  for  Po- 
tosi, the  Church  of  Rome  had  languished  for 
funds,  and  the  worldly  power  they  bring,  and,  it 
may  be,  had  adopted  the  meekness  of  its  Founder, 
who  said:  "My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  earth"; 
but  for  Potosi,  there  had  been  no  Spanish  Ar- 
mada; but  for  Potosi,  there  had  been  no  Spanish- 
owned  Cuba,  no  Spanish-American  war,  no  charge 
of  rough-riders  at  San  Juan,  no  elevation  of  Mr. 
Roosevelt  to  the  Presidency,  no  denunciation  of 
the  trusts,  no  panic  in  Wall  Street  in  the  latter 
part  of  1907.  A  long  chain  of  cause  and  effect 
reaches  out  from  the  discovery  of  silver  in  that 
far-off  mountain. 

Spain  has  set  her  mark  on  Potosi.  Once  the 
greatest  city  of  South  America,  it  is  to-day  small 
and  decayed,  yet  boasts  a  score  of  fine  old 


WANDERINGS  IN   SOUTH  AMERICA       199 

churches.  Quite  intact,  a  superb  building,  is  the 
Royal  Mint,  from  whose  portals  there  passed 
those  wonderful  royalties  to  the  Kings  of  Spain. 
In  this  strange  town  Indian  hovels  stand  beside 
stone  facades  and  carved  doorways  of  real  beauty. 

Twenty  thousand  Indians,  and  few  besides,  live 
to-day  in  Potosi.  They  work  in  the  mountain,  as 
their  ancestors  did  three  hundred  years  ago,  and 
though  the  yield  of  silver  is  now  insignificant,  its 
tin  lodes  are  profitable. 

Made  roads  in  Bolivia  are  few,  and  one  rarely 
travels  but  on  muleback;  a  second  mule  carries 
food  and  bedding;  a  day's  journey  is  ten 
leagues — thirty  miles.  At  night  you  reach  a 
small  Indian  village  and  enter  a  filthy  hut;  you 
spread  your  mattress  on  the  mud  floor,  eat  some 
bread  and  tinned  food,  and,  wearied  out,  fall 
asleep.  Nights  are  cold  on  the  plateau,  yet  be- 
fore daylight  your  muleteer  can  be  heard  fitting 
the  animals  with  their  cumbrous  saddles;  you  rise, 
stiff,  shivering,  depressed,  roll  up  mattress  and 
blankets,  and  are  off  at  the  dawn.  It  is  the 
nadir of  travel. 

The  Indians  of  the  Bolivian  Andes,  degenerate 
descendants  of  the  Incas,  are  a  mild  people,  gain- 
ing a  scanty  subsistence  from  their  poor  patches 
of  cultivation.  They  supplement  this  by  mining 
and  as  carriers,  their  herds  of  llamas,  laden  with 
stores  or  with  tin  ore,  dotting  the  roads.  They 


200  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

are  filthy  in  their  habits,  much  given  to  strong 
drink,  and  of  a  deep  religious  strain.  On  a  Good 
Friday  I  stood  in  the  plaza  at  Oruro  and  saw  the 
Holy  Image  carried  in  priestly  procession.  Thou- 
sands of  Indians  followed,  reverent  in  mien;  an 
Indian  band  played  holy  music,  and  the  Host 
was  raised:  all  hats  were  doffed;  many  fell  on 
their  knees  muttering  hoarse  cries. 

Such  is  religion  in  the  Andes — a  religion  of 
the  senses,  not  of  the  brain.  Next  day,  feast-day 
and  holiday,  these  people,  men  and  women,  lay 
in  the  very  ecstasy  of  drink.  For  days  they  wal- 
lowed in  it;  then  got  up  and  went  about  their 
business,  good-natured,  ignorant,  superstitious, 
filthy — a  little  higher  than  the  beasts  of  the  fields. 

I  went  out  from  Bolivia  over  Lake  Titicaca, 
that  lies  12,500  feet  above  the  sea.  On  an  island 
of  Titicaca,  so  runs  the  legend,  took  place  the 
mystic  birth  of  the  Inca  race.  There  stood  the 
sacred  temple  of  the  sun,  whose  stately  stone  pil- 
lars, brought  we  know  not  whence,  are  still  to  be 
seen.  On  the  far  horizon,  beyond  the  level  ex- 
panse of  the  lake,  all  red-tinged  in  the  sunset,  rose 
Sorata  and  the  white  peaks  of  the  higher  Andes. 

When  it  became  known,  on  November  15, 
1889,  that  the  Emperor  was  deposed,  and  the  Re- 
public proclaimed,  there  was  rejoicing  in  the 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      201 

streets  of  Rio  Janeiro:  Brazil  had  ceased  to  be 
an  Empire. 

All  accounts  show  Dom  Pedro  to  have  been  a 
charming  man  and  a  learned  scientist.  His  faults 
were — he  was  old,  his  grip  over  the  country  had 
not  been  firm,  his  successor  was  a  woman,  and, 
some  say,  priestridden.  He  himself  was  liked, 
but  the  monarchy  was  not  liked.  So  the  republi- 
can party,  then  in  the  ascendant,  gave  him  twenty- 
four  hours  to  leave  the  country,  and  he  went. 

With  the  Republic  came  party  politics  and  the 
spoils  system,  and  as  there  are  a  Federal  and 
twenty  State  Governments  in  the  country,  the 
division  of  the  spoils  in  Brazil  is  a  big  industry. 
The  Brazilian  is  lazy;  he  is  not  a  pioneer,  and 
does  little  to  develop  the  huge  country  lying  at 
his  front  door.  But  he  must  live;  he  is  not  lack- 
ing in  shrewdness,  so  he  takes  the  line  of  least 
resistance  and  goes  into  politics.  Politics  is  his 
business.  One  may  compare  the  Brazilians  to 
those  people  cast  on  the  island,  who  lived  by  tak- 
ing in  each  other's  washing;  all  Brazilians,  in  like 
manner,  seeming  to  live  on  the  Government. 
While  the  abler  acquire  more  or  less  power  and 
a  firmer  grip  on  the  spoils,  there  is  not  enough  to 
go  round,  so  the  average  functionary,  wretchedly 
paid,  supplements  his  income  illicitly. 

To  me,  this  is  all  very  strange.  Hardened  trav- 
eller as  I  am,  I  yet  look  on  Brazil  as  one  of  the 


202  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

loveliest  and  most  romantic  countries  in  the  world, 
while  its  richness  is  a  byword.  Brazil  should  con- 
tain a  race  of  Nature  worshippers,  revelling  in 
its  glorious  scenery,  its  harbours  and  waterfalls,  its 
primeval  forests;  lusty  pioneers,  converting  its 
fertile  soil  not  only  to  coffee,  but  to  a  like  yield 
of  sugar,  cotton,  maize,  tobacco,  fruit,  and  any 
other  staple  the  world  needs;  covering  its  uplands 
with  homesteads  and  its  plains  with  cattle;  work- 
ing its  minerals  with  energy,  and  making,  at  least 
of  the  southern  half,  a  great,  brilliant,  all-em- 
bracing land. 

Such  is  my  ideal.  In  reality,  the  educated  Bra- 
zilian is  a  town-dweller,  guiltless  of  romance, 
given  over  rabidly  to  politics  and  their  spoil,  a 
parasite,  and  with  it  all  ineffective.  His  good 
points  are  a  certain  polish,  relic  of  the  days  of 
the  Empire,  a  kindnes  of  manner,  more  marked 
than  in  the  Spanish  Republics,  a  readiness  to  be 
amused,  and  an  intense  love  of  music;  but  in  es- 
sentials he  is  a  failure. 

Brazil  is  of  course  progressing,  but  this  progress 
is  due  to  the  energy  of  British,  Germans,  Italians, 
and  Portuguese.  The  present  Federal  Govern- 
ment is  the  best  Brazil  has  had;  but  woe  betide 
the  victim  on  whom  any  State  official  casts  his 
snaky  eye. 

Who  can  describe  the  beauty  of  Brazil?  In 
the  mountains  behind  Rio  Janeiro  there  is  a  peak 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      203 

named  Corcovado;  the  view  from  this  of  sea,  har- 
bour, forests,  mountains,  and  a  great  city  appals 
you  with  its  beauty.  Rio  Janeiro  is  the  jewel  of 
the  world.  Where,  too,  will  you  see  fairer  spots 
than  the  bay  of  Bahia  or  the  inlets  to  Victoria  and 
Santos?  Such  as  these  are  the  doors  of  fairy- 
land. 

In  the  interior,  too,  there  is  charm  and  beauty 
— forest-girt  Petropolis,  the  mountain  capital,  the 
wonderful  railroad  from  Santos,  the  picturesque 
and  wealthy  Sao  Paulo,  the  vistas  seen  from  coffee 
estates,  the  dead  city  of  St.  John  del  Rey,  with 
its  fine  old  churches,  the  thriving  German  home- 
steads in  the  south,  and  a  hundred  glimpses  of 
forests,  waterfalls,  trees  blazing  with  colour,  and 
distant  mountains — in  a  word,  Nature  unsur- 
passed. 

But  when  the  hour  of  food  draws  near,  beware ! 
The  Brazilian  cooks  with  a  rancid  lard,  whose 
savour  is  of  dead  bodies ;  his  relish  for  this  horror 
is  not  to  be  comprehended  by  us.  Yet  at  the  same 
meal  one  will  be  offered  oranges  and  coffee  of  a 
taste  divine. 

But  how  they  exasperate  one,  this  nation  of 
officials !  I  arrived  at  Rio  once,  and  on  the  next 
day  went  to  the  Custom  House.  My  trunk  lay 
there;  but  it  was  a  saint's  day,  and  the  place  was 
shut. 

"I  wish  your  saints  were  in  Hades'"  I  shouted; 


204  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

"What  right  has  a  saint  to  keep  me  from  my 
trunk1?"  A  man  passing  gave  a  sickly  smile,  and 
edged  away. 

What  a  farce  are  these  observances !  The  edu- 
cated Brazilian  has  about  as  much  use  for  saints 
as  I  have.  Yet  his  calendar  is  full  of  them. 
Their  days  are  officially  observed,  Government  of- 
fices are  closed,  and  business  disorganized. 

Next  day  I  went  back  for  my  trunk.  I  waited 
an  hour,  cheerfully,  in  a  queue  of  Portuguese  im- 
migrants, and  was  passed  by  time  and  again.  At 
last,  receiving  my  papers,  I  waited  another  hour, 
while  the  official,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  passed 
me  and  attended  a  group  of  compatriots.  When 
I  got  my  trunk  it  was  twenty-six  hours  overdue, 
and  the  Brazilian  Customs  had  made  an  enemy 
for  life. 

One  notes  how  many  Brazilians  are  dressed 
deeply  in  black.  Unlike  the  Poles,  vowed  to  that 
colour  till  one  shall  reintegrate  their  kingdom,  I 
can  only  assume  they  are  sworn  thus  sombrely  to 
await  the  return  of  the  milreis  to  par,  whence 
their  misguided  actions  have  far  driven  it. 

Northern,  or  Equatorial,  Brazil  is  divided  into 
the  States  of  Para  and  Amazonas.  This  vast 
territory  lives  by  one  industry — rubber,  and  con- 
ducts its  business  along  one  main  highway — the 
Amazon,  down  this  stream  passing  perhaps  one 
quarter  of  the  world's  rubber  supply. 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      205 

The  Amazon's  tributaries  number  among  them 
mighty  rivers.  On  these,  small  steamers  ply, 
carrying  into  the  interior  labourers  and  stores,  and 
returning  with  cargoes  of  rubber.  The  labourers 
who  go  into  the  rubber  districts  return  in  reduced 
numbers,  for  the  mortality,  due  to  malaria,  small- 
pox, or,  it  may  be,  the  poisoned  arrows  of  Indians, 
is  ghastly.  It  is  said  that  one  in  three  does  not' 
return. 

From  Para  the  steamer  "Lanfranc,"  of  6,000 
tons,  passed  up  the  great  river.  Rich  tropical 
forests  lined  each  bank,  but  here  and  there  rude 
huts,  natives  in  their  canoes,  or  a  small  clearing 
of  cocoa  or  bananas,  denoted  a  scattered  popula- 
tion. The  heat  was  excessive ;  flocks  of  parakeets 
clove  the  air,  mosquitoes  descended  on  us,  and 
the  loathly  snouts  of  alligators  appeared  above 
the  muddy  waters.  On  the  fourth  day,  1,000 
miles  up,  we  reached  the  junction  with  the  Rio 
Negro,  and  the  town  of  Manaos. 

Manaos,  centre  of  the  rubber  trade,  is  the  cap- 
ital and  only  town  of  Amazonas,  and  has  some 
fifty  thousand  inhabitants.  It  is  a  half-baked 
place,  with  a  high  death-rate.  Its  main  feature 
is  an  opera-house,  with  mosaic  dome,  built  by  the 
Government  at  great  expense,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  the  money  might  have  been  laid  out  to  better 
advantage.  The  opera-house  was  completed 
twelve  years  before,  but  the  town  in  my  time  still 


206  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

lacked  drainage.  An  Italian  company  duly  ar- 
rived to  open  the  opera;  but  yellow  fever  got 
there  first,  so  they  opened  the  new  cemetery. 

The  Government  of  Amazonas  has  been  cor- 
ruption personified.  While  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment receives  the  customs  dues  on  imports,  the 
several  States  are  entitled  to  those  on  exports. 
Levying,  then,  an  export  tax  on  rubber  of  over 
2O  per  cent.,  the  Amazonas  Government  has  been 
in  receipt  of  a  large  revenue,  this  being  supple- 
mented by  a  loan,  equal  to  several  million  pounds, 
issued  in  Paris. 

What  has  it  to  show  for  all  this?  An  empty 
treasury,  with  salaries  six  months  in  arrears,  an 
opera-house,  a  number  of  unfinished  Government 
buildings,  many  retired  Brazilian  and  Portuguese 
contractors  living  abroad  in  luxury,  certain  flash 
women  departing  with  well-filled  purses,  and  a 
stream  of  Governors,  Ministers,  and  functionaries 
making  for  Paris  or  Lisbon.  One  head  of  the 
State  there  was  with  some  pretence  to  statesman- 
ship. In  a  forest  clearing,  three  miles  out  of 
Manaos,  I  saw  the  house  in  which  he  was  found 
strangled.  The  rest  were  vile.  A  recent  Gov- 
ernor cleaned  up  a  million  pounds  during  his  four 
years  of  office.  This  person  visited  Paris  before 
taking  over  the  government,  and  in  a  cafe  got  into 
trouble  with,  and  insulted,  a  French  officer,  who 
promptly  knocked  him  down.  Rising,  and  wiping 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      207 

his  bleeding  face,  he  said,  "Do  you  know  I  am  a 
colonel  in  the  Brazilian  army,  and  the  Governor- 
elect  of  Amaonas?"  Said  the  Frenchman,  bash- 
ing him  over  the  head,  "Well,  take  that  for  being 
a  colonel,  that  for  being  Governor  of  Amazonas !" 
and  felled  him  again  to  the  ground.  But  Brazil 
is  a  strange  country;  before  he  dies  this  man  will 
have  his  statue  in  the  streets  of  Manaos.  Justice 
in  Amazonas  is  for  sale.  On  the  front  of  the  law 
courts,  in  large  letters,  is  the  word  "LEX."  I 
looked  up  at  this  and  smiled.  The  Brazilian  with 
me  said,  "That's  Latin."  I  answered,  "Yes,  I 
know.  The  Law — and  the  Profits" 

Round  the  warehouses  of  Manaos  there  is  a 
smell  as  of  a  million  herrings.  It  comes  from 
the  piles  of  smoked  rubber  perspiring  workmen 
are  packing  for  export  to  New  York,  Liverpool, 
and  Hamburg. 

While  Southern  Brazil  is  a  paradise,  and  Para, 
even,  habitable,  there  can  be  but  one  excuse  for 
living  in  Manaos — a  big  income.  It  is  a  place  of 
too  much  heat  and  too  little  comfort;  the  cost 
of  living  is  enormous,  the  risk  of  dying  is  appre- 
ciable. 

• 

In  Lima,  capital  of  Peru,  the  city  he  founded, 
Pizarro's  corpse  lies  in  the  cathedral  in  a  glass 
coffin.  Standing  by  this,  my  thoughts  went  back 
to  Atahualpa,  last  of  the  Incas,  made  captive  by 


208  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Pizarro,  ransomed  with  the  treasure  of  Cuzco, 
then  brutally  murdered.  By  this  act  of  treachery 
Spain  set  her  foot  on  the  neck  of  South  America, 
while  Holy  Mother  Church,  herself  torturer  of 
men's  bodies,  looked  and  palliated. 

"You  brute,  Pizarro,"  I  remember  saying,  "I 
could  kick  your  coffin  to  pieces!"  The  mummy's 
face  grinned  placidly. 

From  Lima  I  went  up  the  mountain  railroad  to 
Oroya,  riding  thence  forty  leagues  over  the  pampa 
to  Cerro  de  Pasco,  15,000  feet  up,  highest  town 
in  the  world,  and  a  mining  centre  since  1630. 

Unable  to  sleep  at  this  altitude,  I  rose  next 
morning  before  dawn,  and  throwing  my  poncho 
around  me,  went  into  the  street.  It  was  bitterly 
cold,  and  a  dense  fog  lay  over  Cerro  de  Pasco. 
Indians,  wrapped  in  their  blankets,  stole  out  of 
the  mist  and  passed  silently.  I  heard  a  flock  of 
llamas  go  shuffling  by,  and  a  hideous  face — half 
sheep,  half  camel — came  close  up  and  peered  into 
mine.  For  a  time  all  was  silent,  then,  from  out 
the  mist,  came  a  drunken  sigh,  and  some  belated 
reveller  turned  in  his  sleep.  A  ghostly  dawn  of 
day  indeed,  this,  on  the  roof  of  the  world !  The 
cold  alone  seemed  real;  it  cut  to  the  marrow.  I 
returned  to  my  bed  in  the  strange  little  hostelry, 
and  at  last  slept. 

Arequipa,  in  Southern  Peru,  is  a  town  of  charm. 
Lying  at  7,500  feet,  the  climate  is  nearly  perfect, 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      209 

while  three  great  mountains,  rising  white  into  the 
sky,  lend  to  it  extreme  beauty.  A  river  skirts 
the  town,  its  course  marked  for  miles  with  gardens 
and  orchards.  Walking  along  the  streets,  I 
looked  through  doorways  into  old  Spanish  patios. 
Tended  with  care,  many  of  these  were  filled  with 
rich  colour,  while  in  some,  masses  of  blossom, 
rising  above  the  roof's  horizon,  rested  against  a 
background  of  the  eternal  snows.  A  centre  of  the 
Roman  hierarchy  from  early  Spanish  days,  Are- 
quipa  is  full  of  fine  old  churches,  and  is  still  an 
ecclesiastic  stronghold.  Standing  one  day  in  the 
plaza,  the  swell  of  music  from  the  cathedral 
reached  me,  and  I  went  in.  Boys'  voices,  alternat- 
ing with  men's,  were  chanting;  these  ceasing,  the 
organ  burst  into  glorious  sound. 

I  sat  entranced,  as  one  lifted  up.  I  had  been 
drinking  strong  coffee,  and  the  music  ran  through 
my  nerves  as  it  were  wine. 

And  then,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  crossed  the  aisle 
and  ascended  the  pulpit.  A  stream  of  words 
rolled  from  my  tongue: — 

"People  of  Arequipa !  People  of  South  Amer- 
ica !  Listen  to  me  this  morning,  for  I  am  inspired. 
I  have  studied  you,  and  have  seen  that  you  serve 
God  with  your  lips  only.  But  God  is  a  Being 
of  infinite  common  sense;  He  wants  something 
more  practical.  Listen!  You  are  filthy  in  your 
habits,  but  the  real  God  hates  filth ;  only  be  clean, 


210  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

and  He  asks  for  none  of  these  forms.  You  de- 
voutly raise  your  hats  when  you  pass  a  church; 
but  God  would  sooner  you  installed  a  drainage 
system.  The  real  God  loves  justice,  rather  than 
the  celebration  of  saints'  days;  He  would  sooner 
your  courts  were  pure  and  your  saints  forgotten. 

"The  real  God  loves  honesty.  I  say  therefore 
to  your  politicians,  work  for  the  State,  not  for 
yourselves.  Cease  to  take  bribes,  or  to  rob  the 
treasury,  and  let  nepotism  cease.  Take  no  credit 
for  your  suave  manners  or  your  fine  clothes.  In 
His  eyes  uprightness  is  more  than  a  frock-coat, 
and  a  pure  heart  than  a  tall  hat. 

"States  of  South  America,  pay  your  debts! 
Brand-new  cathedrals  weigh  less  with  God  than 
the  rights  of  European  bondholders;  statues  of 
Christ  do  not  offset  the  ninepenny  dollar. 

"As  you  fail  in  the  eyes  of  God,  you  fail  in 
those  of  man.  You  are  making  a  mess  of  South 
America.  This  great  country,  won  for  you  by 
men  like  Bolivar  and  San  Martin,  shows  no 
progress  in  the  things  which  really  count.  She 
is  futile.  Her  name  is  a  byword  for  bad  govern- 
ment, dishonesty,  and  hypocrisy.  I  tell  you  that 
common  sense  is  God's  greatest  attribute,  and  I 
adjure  you  to  govern  and  develop  South  America 
on  right  lines.  Be  clean  in  your  habits,  honest  in 
finance,  just  to  all  men.  Be  these  things,  people 


WANDERINGS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA      211 

of  South  America,  and  I  promise  you  the  respect 
of  the  world,  which  to-day  despises  you  in  its 
heart." 

Thus  do  I  seem  to  have  spoken  in  the  cathedral 
of  Arequipa.  When  I  came  to  myself  the  music 
had  ceased  and  the  place  was  empty. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"BY  THE    WATERS   OF   BABYLON" 

ON  a  day  that  I  remember,  there  was  a  throng 
in  the  bazaar  of  Delhi  and  traffic  stood  still.  A 
procession  of  the  Shiah  sect  was  passing,  and  a 
tinselled  model  of  the  sacred  shrine  at  Kerbela 
was  borne  aloft.  Each  ten  steps  it  halted,  while 
a  leader  and  fanatic  chorus,  shouting,  "Hassan, 
Hosein!  Hassan,  Hosein!"  savagely  beat  their 
breasts  till  the  sweat  poured  off  and  their  ex- 
hausted natures  all  but  gave  way.  Native  police 
guarded  these  zealous  expatiators  and  their 
shrine;  to  the  Faithful  of  Delhi  they  are  schis- 
matic and  not  to  be  tolerated. 

Just  as  great  effect  may  spring  from  small 
cause,  the  Shiah  religion  sprang,  if  I  can  read 
human  nature,  from  a  matter  of  jealousy.  There 
was  a  young  cousin  of  Mahomet,  named  AH,  who 
took  Fatima  for  chief  wife,  the  Prophet's  well- 
loved  daughter,  and  became  father  of  two  sons. 
These  youths,  Hassan  and  Hosein,  grew  to  be 
objects  of  love  and  reverence  to  the  Mahometan 
world,  and  when  their  father  Ali,  as  fourth  suc- 
cessor to  the  Prophet,  assumed  the  Khalifate  it- 

212 


«BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"   213 

self,  they  leapt  to  actual  holiness — became  sacro- 
sanct. 

"Aha!"  said  then  one  day  the  families  of 
Abubekr,  Omar,  and  Othman,  the  dead  Khalifs; 
"Aha!"  echoed  those  who  nursed  secret  aspira- 
tions, "we  see  how  things  are  shaping.  We  see 
the  Khalifate  passing  utterly  to  this  family,  de- 
scending then  from  father  to  son.  All  the  holi- 
ness, and  power,  and  prestige  in  their  hands — this 
will  never  do !" 

So  those  astute  insiders  put  their  heads  to- 
gether, as  astute  insiders  do  to  this  day,  and  caused 
things  to  happen.  Thus  we  see  the  deposition 
of  Ali  and  his  sons,  and  the  succession  passing 
from  this  family;  we  see  their  partizans  seceding 
— outwardly  on  points  of  doctrine,  inwardly  just 
on  personal  issues — from  the  Faith;  we  see  the 
rising  of  the  shrines,  and  the  crystallization  of  the 
Ali  tradition  into  a  great  Eastern  religion.  Hence 
came  those  breast-beatings,  those  shouts  of  "Has- 
san, Hosein !"  in  the  bazaar  of  Delhi ;  hence,  too, 
the  disorganization  of  that  city's  tramways,  which 
took  place  even  as  I  watched. 

The  Holy  Family  thus  suffered  temporal 
eclipse,  and  their  graves  are  scattered  through- 
out Arabia.  Fatima  and  Hassan  lie  in  Medina. 
Ali  died  by  violence  at  distant  Nejef,  and  is 
buried  there,  and  Hosein,  acclaimed  holiest  of  all, 
with  his  half-brother  Abbas,  lie  where  they  fell 


214.  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

fighting  for  the  Khalifate,  at  Kerbela.  But 
though  dead  their  cause  was  not  dead,  and  the 
followers  of  AH  came  in  time  to  be  numbered 
by  millions.  North-East  Arabia  is  Shiah,  and 
there  are  many  of  the  sect  in  India.  Persia,  to  a 
man,  has  ever  been  Shiah.  Her  support  meant 
everything;  it  endowed  the  sect  with  a  subtlety 
of  mind  the  Arabs  never  knew,  and  with  an 
ecclesiastical  architecture  as  delicate  in  imagina- 
tion as  it  is  exquisite  in  colour.  Dotted  about 
the  northern  desert,  where  the  Arabs  live  primi- 
tive as  of  yore,  are  the  shrines  of  Samarra,  Kadhi- 
main,  Kufa,  Nejef,  and  Kerbela.  These,  and  I 
doubt  not  many  more  unknown  to  me,  are  the 
fruits  of  Persian  genius — a  genius  which  flowered 
richly,  gave  to  these  desert  places  its  masterpieces, 
then  went  down  in  atrophy. 

Near  the  head  of  the  Persian  Gulf  a  great 
river  flows  into  the  sea.  They  call  it  Shatt-el- 
Arab.  Date  groves  fringe  the  banks,  behind 
which  Arab  husbandmen  plough  and  reap  in  the 
low-lying  fields,  canoes  skim  the  muddy  waters, 
fishermen  cast  their  nets  into  the  teeming  depths, 
and  great  dhows,  heavily  laden,  are  pulled  along 
the  towing  paths  or  sail  by  on  favouring  wind. 
This  river  may  well  be  great ;  the  waters  of  Tigris 
and  Euphrates  have  met  eighty  miles  above,  while 
those  of  the  Karun,  flowing  south  out  of  Persia, 
swell  the  main  stream  ere  it  reaches  the  Gulf. 


"BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"   215 

Ocean  steamers  sail  forty  miles  up  Shatt-el- 
Arab  to  Busrah ;  in  the  season  one  may  see  a  dozen 
vessels  lying  here  in  the  stream.  This  is  export- 
point  for  a  great  hinterland;  here  the  river 
steamers  converge,  and  the  laden  dhows,  in  their 
hundreds,  come  sailing  down  day  and  night. 

Busrah,  with  the  river  and  the  hinterland,  is 
in  Asiatic  Turkey,  a  land  that  stretches  from  the 
Bosphorus  to  the  Persian  Gulf,  from  just  south 
of  Batoum  to  the  confines  of  Aden.  Not  only  a 
vast  but  a  rich  land  this ;  cut  off  the  great  southern 
deserts,  and  there  yet  remains,  actual  and  latent, 
a  splendid  and  fertile  Empire.  I  was  in  Smyrna 
last  autumn.  They  were  packing  the  world's 
supply  of  figs.  Here  I  am  in  Busrah,  twelve  hun- 
dred miles  away,  and  they  are  putting  up  crea- 
tion's dates.  Not  only  is  Busrah  metropolis  of 
dates;  it  exports  to  America,  where  the  tobacco 
interests  hold  a  monopoly,  nearly  all  the  liquorice 
of  the  world. 

More  arresting  than  liquorice,  perhaps  even 
than  dates,  are  these  big  piles  of  barley  on  the 
banks,  which  Arab  women  and  children  are  win- 
nowing. This  must  be  grain  from  a  thousand 
up-country  patches,  surplus  grain  for  export,  yet 
clearly  of  fine  quality;  if  the  haphazard  Arab, 
watering  with  his  goat-skin,  can  produce  such 
grain,  and  this  strong  autumn  sun  not  even  shrivel 
it,  modern  irrigation  has  here  an  ideal  field. 


216  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

With  such  a  climate,  such  rivers,  such  soil, 
such  fruits — and  there  are  bitumen  wells  in  the 
interior,  a  southern  extension,  it  may  be,  of  the 
Russian  oil  zone — Turkish  Arabia  might  progress 
under  the  fairest  auspices.  I  say  might  progress. 
It  must  rest  at  that;  the  Turks  cannot  run  a 
modern  Empire,  their  sway  is  futile  from  first  to 
last. 

Turkey  is  doomed  to  disintegration — I  believe 
in  our  lifetime.  She  cannot  keep  in  the  running. 
The  Turk  is  quite  a  man  in  his  way,  but  his  sys- 
tem is  the  Mahometan  system,  and  Mahometan 
finance  is  all  wrong.  Modern  government  is  re- 
solved, ultimately,  into  one  factor — sound  finance. 
Where  that  obtains,  as  in  England,  Germany, 
Switzerland,  Scandinavia,  nations  emerge  and 
rank  as  the  fittest.  Where  there  is  financial  slack- 
ness the  nations  tend  to  sink.  Where  there  is 
widespread  financial  corruption  these  nations  must 
soon  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  fit.  In  finance  all 
the  Mahometan  Governments  are  corrupt,  and  all 
are  futile.  This  is  no  new  thing;  but  modern 
international  trade  and  commerce  do  not  tolerate^ 
such  futility,  and  the  fitter  nations  are  preparing 
to  take  over  these  and  govern  in  their  stead.  This 
I  find  seemly;  not  as  moralist,  but  as  evolutionist. 
In  this  cycle  material  progress  is  the  keynote;  the 
world's  material  development  and  the  creation  of 
wealth  is  the  ideal  we  set  before  us.  Another 


"BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"    217 

cycle,  the  pendulum  may  swing,  and  Islam,  with 
energy  reborn,  overthrow  an  effete  Europe;  but 
that  to-day  these  nations,  which  lie  corrupt  and 
worn  out  at  our  feet,  should  be  bolstered  to  a 
further  futility  is  against  common  sense. 

These  are  reflections  by  the  way.  This  is  the 
broad  River  Tigris,  some  hundreds  of  miles  from 
the  Gulf.  It  is  barren  here,  almost  a  desert,  a 
great  plain,  and  the  river  flows  muddy  and  slug- 
gish. Here  and  there  Bedouins  are  encamped, 
with  their  asses  and  their  fat-tailed  sheep; 
slovenly  and  squalid,  nomads  rather  than  tillers 
of  the  soil,  these  tribes  live  as  their  fathers  lived 
three  thousand  years  ago.  Far  to  the  right  lie  the 
Persian  mountains,  the  border  range;  it  is  but 
early  November,  yet  their  tops  are  white  with  the 
first  snow. 

We  are  now  come  into  Mesopotamia,  a  biblical 
land.  Yesterday  we  passed  a  blue  dome  by  the 
river,  rising  in  a  grove  of  date  palms.  It  was 
the  well-attested  grave  of  the  prophet  Ezra.  To- 
night, a  moonless  night,  and  the  boat  tied  up,  I 
walked  over  the  desert  to  the  ruins  of  Ctesiphon, 
the  palace  of  King  Darius.  My  lantern  was  car- 
ried by  a  Chaldean. 

And  here  at  last,  after  a  tortuous  waterway  of 
nearly  six  hundred  miles,  is  the  city  of  Bagdad, 
lying  on  both  banks,  with  its  bridge  of  boats. 
Seen  from  afar,  with  the  date  palms  and  the 


218  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

slender  minarets,  this  is  the  romantic  city  of  the 
Khalifs.  But  do  not  pry  into  Bagdad.  The 
mosques  are  lacking  in  glamour,  the  bazaars  are 
tawdry,  with  the  tawdry  wares  of  Europe,  and 
the  streets,  that  are  alleys,  are  slimy  with  the 
filth  of  seventy  thousand  Jews.  Yet  this  may 
be  said:  one  should  not  miss  the  bazaar  of  the 
two  thousand  coppersmiths,  nor  a  certain  vista 
on  the  river,  when  the  moon  comes  sailing  over 
the  date  palms.  And  but  two  leagues  away  there 
is  Kadhimain — a  mosque  of  burnished  gold,  a 
venerated  shrine,  where  the  pilgrims  are  kneeling; 
it  is  in  such  proximity  that  Bagdad  lays  her  claims 
on  Shiahdom.  , 

Each  morning,  at  three  o'clock,  from  a  cara- 
vanserai on  the  south  bank  of  the  river,  a  convoy 
of  wagonettes  leaves  Bagdad  for  Kerbela.  Each 
is  drawn  by  eight  mules,  and  holds  some  ten  pil- 
grims, who  sit  shaded  under  coarse  white  canvas. 
This  is  a  land  of  robber  bands ;  on  one  vehicle  in 
three  or  four  a  soldier  sits  beside  the  driver,  his 
rifle  across  his  knees.  If  the  day  promises  dust 
there  is  much  manoeuvring,  many  a  hand-gallop 
in  the  dark  for  first  place;  but  a  European  of 
condition,  travelling  with  his  consulate's  qawass, 
will  be  given  precedence. 

So  we  travel  through  chill  dark  hours,  and 
when  the  sun  rises  our  cavalcade  is  already  far 
out  on  the  desert.  Another  hour,  and  a  village 


"BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"    219 

is  reached,  a  changing  station  for  the  mules.  From 
its  humble  coffee-shop  an  attendant  is  summoned, 
who  brings  me,  lying  in  the  sun,  cups  of  Mocha 
from  the  Yemen,  whose  fragrance  and  strength, 
blending  with  the  buoyant  desert  air,  shoot 
through  my  nerves  in  a  thousand  harmonies. 

These  pilgrims  who  drive  are  the  moneyed 
folks.  It  is  true  that  a  seat  to  Kerbela  costs  less 
than  a  medjidie — a  matter  of  three  shillings — but 
how  many  there  are  tread  this  desert  track  with 
less !  Here  are  some,  with  their  women,  who  ride 
asses.  These,  returning,  bestride  emaciated  horses. 
This  considerable  band,  who  rally  round  a  green 
flag,  go  all  afoot.  There  are  Arabs,  and  Indians, 
and  many,  many  Persians.  There  are  the  sick, 
too,  and  the  old.  If  it  please  Allah  that  they  lie 
down  in  holy  Kerbela — it  is  well ;  if  it  please  Him 
that  they  waken  not  again — it  is  still  well. 

Presently  we  reach  the  village  of  Musseyib, 
and  the  Euphrates,  which  is  spanned  by  a  bridge 
of  boats.  We  are  fifty  miles  from  Bagdad,  and 
the  desert  we  have  crossed  is  the  richest  soil  in 
the  world,  virgin  now  for  centuries,  awaiting  the 
irrigation  that  shall  make  it  a  garden.  Four 
miles  from  here  French  engineers  built  a  barrage; 
but  Turkey  was  in  control,  and  it  was  never  fin- 
ished. To-day  a  great  British  firm  carries  the 
work  through  on  a  new  site.  But  the  fat  Turks 
are  waiting.  They  smack  their  lips.  From  this 


220  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

coming  fertility  they  are  like  to  wring  a  princely 
baksheesh. 

Twenty  miles  south  of  Euphrates  holy  Ker- 
bela  is  seen  on  the  plain — a  town  among  date 
palms.  As  it  draws  to  evening  the  mosques  of 
Hosein  and  Abbas  stand  out  clearly,  their  golden- 
tipped  minarets  catching  the  sun ;  as  we  drive  past 
these  the  muezzins  have  already  ascended,  and  are 
calling  to  the  evening  prayer.  Night  falls  like  a 
thunderbolt. 

The  Shiah  is  a  fanatic.  Inspired  by  the  mullahs^ 
he  denies  approach  to  his  mosques,  and  for  the 
sacred  places  of  Kerbela  fears  desecration  most 
of  all.  As  I  passed  next  day  through  the  bazaars 
that  lie  adjacent  to  the  two  shrines,  I  stood  now 
at  this  gate,  now  at  that,  viewing  the  spacious 
courtyards,  gazing  upon  the  walls  of  mosaic,  the 
wide  Koranic  scrolls,  the  high  old  doors,  upon 
those  who  prayed,  and  those  who  sold,  and  upon 
a  great  human  spectacle.  At  my  side  a  soldier 
stood  and  two  consular  guards  in  uniform,  so  this 
was  permitted  me ;  without  them  I  had  found  but 
poor  welcome  in  Kerbela. 

A  whispering  now  took  place.  There  was  a 
stealthy  transfer  of  silver,  and  I  was  led  up  on 
to  two  roofs,  whence  the  golden  domes  and  the 
minarets  stood  out  in  their  glory,  and  the  date 
palms  that  encircle  Kerbela,  and  the  long  horizon 
of  the  desert. 


"BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"    221 

Later,  I  stood  before  the  grain  booths,  where 
naked  men,  slaves  in  all  but  name,  plied  the 
heavy  grinding  mills.  An  overladen  ass  dropped 
at  my  feet,  and  I  became  aware  of  horses  and 
asses  and  camels  suffering  from  grievous  sores. 
Of  men,  too!  Lepers  sat  there,  and  the  blind, 
and  the  epileptic,  and  the  abject,  while  the  awful 
stench  of  cesspools  stole  into  the  sacred  courtyards. 

In  the  afternoon  I  walked  alone  to  the  out- 
skirts. There  were  wells  here  and  patches  of 
irrigation.  Beyond,  at  the  verge  of  the  desert, 
blue  domes  stood  out,  and  among  the  many  tombs 
an  Arab  funeral  was  wending. 

Before  sunset  I  returned  to  the  bazaar,  to  a 
caravanserai  of  the  Indians  that  stood  near  to  the 
mosque  of  Abbas.  Out  on  the  roof  a  group  of 
pilgrims  stood  waiting,  and  with  these  I  spoke. 

"I,"  said  one,  "come  from  Karachi." 

"And  I  from  Porebunder." 

"I  am  from  Ujjain.  We  stay  here  forty  days, 
and  at  Nejef  forty.  On  our  way  home  we  shall 
play  at  Kadhimain,  and  at  the  tomb  of  Ezra." 

Small  rooms  were  perched  about  the  roof.  The 
doors  of  one  were  thrown  open,  and  a  venerable 
Indian  within,  noting  that  the  sun  was  about  to 
sink,  spread  his  carpet  towards  Mecca,  and  began 
a  solemn  chant.  On  the  roofs  around  figures 
were  now  kneeling,  and  all  the  hubbub  from  the 
mosque's  courtyard  was  suddenly  hushed.  At  this 


222  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

moment,  as  the  muezzin  came  out  on  the  golden 
minaret,  a  thousand  cloud-flakes,  floating  in  the 
western  sky,  became  shot  with  rose,  a  tremulous 
evanescence,  which  yet  lay  on  them  till  the  last 
notes  of  the  call  had  died  away. 

That  night  I  lay  awake  in  Kerbela,  and  as  I 
lay,  long  before  the  dawn,  an  Arab's  voice  rose 
in  a  chant.  Wrapping  myself  round,  I  went 
out  on  the  roof.  But  the  voice  was  deeply  myste- 
rious. It  came  I  knew  not  whence.  It  rose  thin 
and  high,  it  passed  over  Kerbela,  and  the  date 
palms,  and  the  tombs,  and  I  think  it  reached  some 
wandering  holy  man,  who  stood  a  listener  that 
night,  far  out  in  the  desert  of  Arabia. 

On  the  northern  bank  of  Euphrates,  a  short 
day's  ride  from  Kerbela,  are  the  vast,  shapeless 
mounds  where  an  ancient  city  stood.  At  a  dis- 
tance of  two  miles  another  mound,  solitary  and 
high,  would  seem  to  denote  some  huge  monument 
of  antiquity.  This  ancient  city  was  Babylon; 
that  monument,  no  other  than  the  Towel  of 
Babel. 

There  are  date  palms  down  by  the  river,  and 
in  a  house  among  the  palms  four  German  scientists 
sit  at  the  midday  meal.  They  receive  me  with 
open  arms,  and  I  imbibe  coffee  and  much  arche- 
ology. 

The  Tower  of  Babel,  a  hundred  yards  square 


"BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON"    223 

at  the  base,  as  like  as  not  was  pyramidal.  It  is 
not  even  certain  that  it  rose  two  hundred  feet. 
But  Babylon,  whose  hewn  records  date  from  script 
back  to  hieroglyph,  from  hieroglyph  back  to  the 
very  dawn  of  things,  was  a  city  indeed — a  city  for 
some  thousands  of  years. 

And  it  was  great.  I  wandered  for  a  square 
mile,  for  perhaps  two  miles;  I  saw  where  they 
excavate  now,  and  where  the  great  uncouth 
mounds  date  back  untouched  to  B.C.  Blue  pigeons 
flew  from  the  caves,  and  a  jackal  stole  from  his 
lair  in  the  ruins. 

These  blond-bearded  scientists,  financed  by  the 
German  Oriental  Society,  are  minute  in  detail, 
intensely  thorough.  Yet  fortune  does  not  greatly 
favour  them.  There  is  no  rock  in  this  region; 
Babylon  was  therefore  built  of  brick,  much  of  it 
unburnt  brick,  and  it  has  melted.  How  easily 
might  it  have  been  a  Timgad,  a  Palmyra,  a  Baal- 
bee,  a  Persepolis,  and  remains — a  melted  Babylon ! 

Still,  there  is  Nebuchadnezzar's  gateway  of 
victory,  where  the  plaster  reliefs  of  animals,  laid 
over  the  bricks,  are  in  fine  preservation,  and  there 
is  a  great  stone  bull,  and  the  ground-plan  of  the 
palace,  and  all  the  archseological  minutise  in 
which  the  Germans  revel.  And  there  is  hope;  a 
turn  of  the  spade,  any  day,  may  lead  to  a  great 
find. 

I  am  soon  to  depart,  and  the  visitors'  book  lies 


THE   SHADOW-SHOW 

before  me — Babylon  requests  my  p.p.c. !  There 
are  able  sketches  in  this  book,  verses  too  and  a 
Frenchman  has  penned  clever  words.  My  mood 
calls  for  a  diatribe : — 

"What  is  progress?  Do  we  not  mistake  change  for  progress, 
greater  complexity  of  life  for  real  advance?  Human  nature 
does  not  vary.  We  are,  for  good  or  evil,  as  the  men  of 
Babylon  were.  In  ethics,  Napoleon  was  as  Nebuchadnezzar. 

"These  hieroglyphs  indicate  crude  scholarship  in  the  few, 
ignorance  in  the  many.  Is  the  world  better  to-day  when  all 
men  read  and  write?  Your  tenth  man  can  thrive  on  learning; 
your  other  nine  become  anarchists,  socialists,  spiritualists,  senti- 
mentalists— wayfarers  along  a  thousand  paths  of  ignorance. 
These  are  the  hewers  of  wood  and  the  drawers  of  water; 
they  should  be  left  to  hew  and  draw. 

"Democracy  and  flabbiness  drag  Europe  to  the  abyss.  So 
she  will  continue,  till  a  new  era  shall  dawn  and  the  world 
revive  to  the  touch  of  the  'overman.'  I  commend  Nietzsche 
to  you." 

I  came  out  at  sunrise  to-day,  the  Germans 
being  already  up  and  about.  I  was  bound  for 
the  wide  world,  for  the  future;  their  minds  lay 
with  Babylon  and  the  past.  In  the  date  palms 
a  bird  was  singing  of  youth  and  joy,  and  all  the 
air  was  buoyant.  A  flight  of  pigeons  passed,  head- 
ing for  the  mounds  of  Babel.  A  young  Arab  went 
by  driving  donkeys,  and  herdsmen  were  moving 
their  sheep  across  the  dried-up  channel  of  the 
river.  The  present  channel  of  Euphrates  has 
shifted  from  here,  and  this  ancient  bed  awaits  the 
barrage  ere  it  will  flow  again.  Thus  it  was  I  did 
not  see  the  waters  of  Babylon. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    GRAVE    IN    SAMOA 

ON  a  day  in  1898  I  landed  at  Apia.  It  was 
tropical  high  noon,  and  the  village  slept  beneath 
its  trees — all  but  slept;  in  a  nightdress,  at  the 
door  of  her  liquor  saloon,  stood  a  white  woman. 

I  drank  lime-juice  at  her  bar,  waiting  while 
she  refreshed,  at  my  expense,  with  a  bottle  of 
beer;  then,  "Can  you  direct  me  to  Vailima?"  I 
said.  As  she  pointed,  a  young  native  girl  ap- 
peared, with  hibiscus  in  her  hair,  and  for  the 
payment  of  sixpence  became  guide.  Walking  a 
mile,  or  it  may  have  been  two,  we  left  the  road, 
and  passing  through  coco-nut  groves  came  to 
Vailima.  The  house  stood  deserted.  Windows 
were  broken,  furniture  had  been  taken  away,  and 
the  dust  lay  thick.  In  the  spacious  library,  where 
Stevenson  had  written,  the  books  remained,  among 
them  a  large  French  collection ;  but  many  lay  torn 
on  the  floor,  stripped  of  the  autograph,  and  damp 
was  fast  claiming  the  rest. 

An  old  native  appeared,  the  caretaker,  who  told 
me  house  and  property  were  for  sale;  he  men- 
tioned the  sum  of  two  thousand  pounds,  and  I  sat 

225 


226  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

on  the  floor  among  the  torn  books  and  did  some 
hard  thinking.  It  would  have  meant  half  my 
capital,  and  Scotch  caution  carried  the  day;  but 
that  library  floor  haunted  me  for  years.  A  Ger- 
man was  to  buy  Vailima. 

Leaving  the  house,  and  alone,  I  followed  the 
track  through  the  forest  and  up  the  mountain — 
the  track  cut  for  Stevenson's  funeral.  The  long, 
weary  ascent  to  the  grave  exhausted  me.  I  had 
received  a  sunstroke  that  equatorial  morning,  and 
for  an  hour  I  lay  over  the  grave-stone  oblivious 
of  my  surroundings,  lost  to  the  outer  world. 

****** 
My  eyes  are  shut  tight.     My  forehead  presses 

something  hard,  and  there  is  terrible  buzzing  in 
my  head — but  I  know  where  I  am.  I  am  swim- 
ming in  the  sea.  Over  there  the  figure  of  a  widow 
rises  and  falls  on  the  swell. 

"Madam !"  I  cry  across,  "your  husband's  library 
is  become  mouldy,"  but  at  that  she  dives  right 
under,  and  is  gone. 

How  my  head  aches!  I  want  to  think  of 
Stevenson,  yet  am  obsessed  by  Dolores.  .  .  . 
There  is  something  about  a  grave.  .  .  .  Let  me 
think.  ...  If  the  gods 

"Gave  the  cypress  to  love,  my  Dolores 
The  myrtle  to  death," 

then  what  about  the  English  cemetery  at  Rome? 
//  is  all  cypress.  Shelley  is  lying  there,  with 


A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA  227 

Trelawney  and  the  elect,  and  Keats  by  himself 
in  a  lonely  little  grove.  I  went  from  there,  I 
mind  me,  to  the  church  in  Ara-Cceli,  where  Gib- 
bon was  sitting  when  it  came  to  him  to  write 
the  "Roman  Empire,"  finished  twenty  years  later 
at  Lausanne — but  I  don't  think  anything  came 
to  me.  Yes,  I  remember!  I  decided  that  the 
"Last  Supper"  on  the  refectory  wall  at  Milan 
was  greater  than  any  work  of  Raphael  or  Michel- 
angelo. One  was  always  told  they  come  first. 
Ruskin,  who  had  nothing  to  say,  and  said  it  with 
great  charm,  put  that  about,  but  I've  learned  for 
myself  since  then.  It  wasn't  even  Leonardo;. it 
was  that  time  in  Madrid  when  I  walked  into  the 
big  Velasquez  room,  and  stood  stock  still  for  ten 
minutes.  Here  was  the  greatest  painter  in  the 
world !  I  knew  it  before  I  moved  again.  .  .  . 

(I  feel  sick  as  a  dog.  Patterns  form  and  re- 
form in  my  eyeballs.)  .  .  .  There  was  Murillo 
next  door,  with  his  fifty  assorted  altar-pieces, 
Madonnas  and  saints;  a  colourist  certainly,  but  a 
harper  on  one  string.  "Murillo,  my  lad,"  I  re- 
member saying,  "you  fall  a  bit  flat ;  all  you  Pope- 
pleasers  do.  You  are  damned  monotonous,  if  you 
must  know." 

Now  turn  to  Velasquez.  What  did  he  care 
for  tradition?  "You  can  take  it  or  leave  it"  was 
his  way  with  the  cardinals.  Painting  dwarfs, 


228  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

beggars,  topers,  cities,  kings,  courtiers,  children, 
animals — he  saw  all  things  dead  true  and  painted 
as  he  saw.  Master  of  simplicity,  master  of  light, 
utterly  versatile,  transmitter  of  intellect — not  of 
beauty,  he  stands  head  and  shoulders  above  them 
all.  Look  at  that  "^Esop" !  it  is  the  picture  of 
the  world.  "JEsop"  and  "Don  Quixote,"  greatest 
of  pictures  and  of  books;  and  to  come  nearly 
together  out  of  priestridden,  ghoulish  Spain ! 

The  Velasquez  of  these  days,  master-handler 
of  the  painter's  all-in-all — light — is  one  Whistler, 
a  cantankerous  eccentric,  whom  critics  deride  and 
men  laugh  at,  whom  Carlyle,  who  sat  to  him, 
called  the  most  absurd  creature  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  He  may  be,  but,  take  it  from  me,  this 
unpleasant  person  is  going  down  to  immortality. 
Picture  the  scene  a  score  of  years  hence.  Whistler, 
sipping  an  absinthe,  is  seated  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
He  listens  to  heated  remarks  by  Rossetti,  on  the 
fat  women  of  Rubens  and  their  tendency  to  wal- 
low. To  them  enters  a  boy  from  the  "Mundane 
Messages  Company." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Whistler?"  he  asks. 

"My  name  is  Whistler." 

"Well,  there's  a  message  up  to  say  they  think 
Velasky,  Remnant,  and  you  the  greatest  school  of 
painters." 

Fixing   his    eyes    intently    on    the   Attorney- 


'A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA 

General * — I  mean  the  messenger — Whistler  will 
say  acidly,  "I  presume  you  mean  Velasquez  and 
Rembrandt."  And  then  thoughtfully  to  Rossetti, 
"But  why  drag  them  in?  No,  boy,  there  is  no 
tip!" 

.  .  .  How  my  head  goes  round !  That  widow 
is  swimming  there  again. 

"Madam!" 

She  hails  me :  "I  know  what  you  would  say— 
the  mouldy  library,  n'esf-ce  pas?  .  .  .  The  in- 
evitable must" 

"Gilbert's  wittiest  pun!  Then  you  are  not 
utterly  heartless1?"  But  she  is  gone  again.  .  .  . 

How  happy  Stevenson  was  that  night  in  the 
wood,  up  in  the  French  hills,  when  he  rose  and 
made  chocolate  and  heard  the  turn  of  the  night! 
Surely  it  was  only  the  other  day,  and  yet  he  has 
lain  here,  in  the  forest,  for  four  years.  I  wonder 
how  "Weir  of  Hermiston"  was  to  have  ended? 
.  .  .  And  "St.  Ives"?  .  .  .  That  marvellous  first 
chapter  of  the  "Ebb  Tide"  !  .  .  . 

Why  did  he  never  use  Austrailia?  He  was 
there,  once,  at  least.  All  that  material,  too!  Did 
the  bushrangers  leave  him  cold?  Did  he  never 
hear  of  Fisher's  Ghost?  Nor  of  the  Bunyip — 
that  ghastly  thing,  half-calf,  half-man,  that  is  said 
to  raise  its  head  from  the  depth  of  some  inland 

1  This  strange  allusion  would  seem  to  be  connected  with  the 
trial  Whistler  v.  Ruskin,  described  in  Whistler's  book  "The 
Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies"  (p.  10). 


230  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

pool  at  sundown?  Did  he  never  meet  a  certain 
police  magistrate  of  Albury?  I  can  fancy  such 
one  saying,  "Mr.  Stevenson,  our  best  romances 
are  'Geoffrey  Hamlyn,'  'For  the  Term  of  His 
Natural  Life,'  'Moondyne,'  and — ahem!  'Rob- 
bery under  Arms.'  Read  these,  I  beg  of  you,  and 
such  other  material  as  I  shall  delightedly  put  be- 
fore you,  then  write,  and  make  Steve  Hart,  Gaird- 
ner,  or  the  Jew  Boy  immortal."  .  .  . 

The  "Bulletin" !  Why  was  he  never  asked  to 
edit  the  "Red  Page?"  Or  was  he  asked,  and  did 
he  refuse?  He  could  have  done  the  work  from 
Vailima.  Perhaps  he  didn't  like  the  "Bulletin" ; 
there  are  many  very  respectable  people  who  do 
not.  But  Stevenson  was  not  very  respectable — 
he  was  great.  To  me,  it  is  the  cleverest  paper 
printed,  its  editor  the  ablest  journalist  of  his  time. 
On  the  Australian  national  idea  it  is  sound  as  a 
bell — inspired,  one  might  say.  But  it  has  faults. 
It  exposes  and  pulls  down  shams,  but  does  not 
always  build  again.  A  merciless  critic  of  men's 
errors,  it  rarely  approves  their  virtues.  Of  the 
rich  it  is  unsparing,  showing  thus  a  lack  of  propor- 
tion. The  rich  are  not  worse  than  the  poor;  they 
never  were. 

"Hearts  just  as  pure  and  fair 
May  beat  in  Belgrave  Square, 
As  in  the  lowly  air 
Of   Seven   Dials!" 


A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA  231 

The  "Bulletin"  must  grow  as  a  force,  for  it  is 
desperately  clever.  It  has  more  than  half  made 
Australian  poetry.  Pegasus  there  was  a  brumby^ 
peeping  shyly  from  the  "bush."  The  "Bulletin" 
tames  him  by  'kindness;  but  as  yet  he  does  not 
amble,  a  lady's  hack,  along  Pitt  Street.  .  .  . 

No  horse  for  me!  I  am  lying  giddy  some- 
where. .  .  .  My  eyes  are  still  shut  tight ;  crystal- 
lizations were  forming  on  the  retina,  till  an 
arabesque  appeared  on  a  blood-red  ground.  It 
is  the  scroll  of  Ali.  It  is  the  shawl  flung  over 
Fatima,  when  father  gave  his  consent!  Beware 
of  jealousy,  Ali !  There  were  those  who  .  .  . 

Where  was  I?  ...  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon, 
gentleman  jockey,  set  the  pace  in  poetry.  English 
by  birth,  he  died  by  his  own  hand,  laureate  of 
Australia.  He  wrote  of  horses  and  racing — things 
that  bore  me.  I  like  best  his  poem  to  one  of  the 
explorers,  Wills  or  Leichardt,  dying  of  thirst  in 
the  Never-Never.  I  can  see  the  desert,  and  the 
blood-red  sunset,  the  tracks  of  the  doomed  man, 
and  all  the  shadowy  forms  of  the  night : — 

"With  the  pistol  clenched  in  his  failing  hand, 
With  the  death  mist  spread  o'er  his  fading  eyes, 
He  saw  the  sun  go  down  on  the  sand, 
And  he  slept  and  never  saw  it  rise. 

Twas  well;  he  toiled  till  his  task  was  done, 
Constant  and  calm  in  his  latest  throe; 
The  storm  was  weathered,  the  battle  was  won, 
When  he  went,  my  friends,  where  we  all  must  go. 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

No  tears  are  needed — fill  out  the  wine, 
Let  the  goblets  clash,  and  the  grape  juice  flow; 
Ho!  pledge  me  a  death-drink,  comrade  mine, 
To  a  brave  man  gone  where  we  all  must  go." 

Then  there  is  Brunton  Stevens,  of  the  Queens- 
land Civil  Service.  His  "Convict  Once"  is  the 
most  sustained  poem  written  in  Australia;  it  has 
a  true  "atmosphere."  He  is  a  poet  of  distinction, 
but  one  born  in  England. 

Paterson,  the  "bard  of  the  bush,"  set  all  Aus- 
tralia talking  of  "The  Man  from  Snowy  River." 
He  is  the  new  laureate;  I  give  him  thanks  for 
"Black  Swans,"  "Kiley's  Hill,"  "Saltbush  Bill," 
"In  the  Droving  Days."  Paterson,  and  all  these 
Australian  poets,  reek  of  the  "bush."  That  is 
their  glory,  for  the  "bush"  is  Australia.  Haven't 
I  known  that  since  I  was  fourteen"? 

"As  I  lie  at  rest  on  a  patch  of  clover, 

In  the  Western  Park  when  the  day  is  done, 
I   watch   as   the   wild  black   swans   fly  over, 

With  their  phalanx  turned  to  the  sinking  sun; 
And  I  hear  the  clang  of  their  leader  crying 
To  a  lagging  mate  in  the  rearward  flying, 
And  they  fade  away  in  the  darkness  dying, 
Where   the   stars   are   mustering   one   by   one." 

I  have  seen  the  swans  flying  in  their  phalanx; 
I  have  heard  the  clanging  too.  I  was  steeped  in 
the  "bush"  ere  I  knew  Africa. 

It's  funny,  I  can't  open  my  eyes; — but  I  re- 
member things.  .  .  . 

"Kiley's  Hill"  is  a  gem.  It  is  a  deserted  bush 
farm  Paterson  tells  of,  and  he  ends  thus : — 


A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA  233 

"Where  are  the  children  that  throve  and  grew 
In  the  old  homestead  in  days  gone  by? 
One  is  away  on  the  far  Barcoo, 
Watching  his  cattle  the  long  year  through, 
Watching  them  starve  in  the  droughts  and  die. 

One  in  the  town  where  all  cares  are  rife, 
Weary  with  troubles  that  cramp   and  kill, 
Fain  would  be  done  with  the  restless  strife, 
Fain  would  go  back  to  the  old  bush  life, 
Back  to  the  shadow  of  Kiley's  Hill. 

One  is  away  on  the  roving  quest, 

Seeking  his  share  of  the  golden  spoil, 

Out  in  the  wastes  of  the  trackless  west, 

Wandering  ever  he  gives  the  best 

Of  his  years  and  strength  to  the  hopeless  toil. 

What  of  the  parents?     That  unkempt  mound 
Shows  where  they  slumber  united  still ; 
Rough  is  their  grave,  but  they  sleep  as  sound 
Out  on  the  range  as  on  holy  ground, 
Under    the    shadow    of   Kiley's    Hill." 

Damn  my  head!  ...  I  think  I  want  to  cry. 
.  .  .  After  Paterson  came  Victor  Daley,  and  there 
is  a  poem  by  him — "His  Mate" — I  have  read, 
oh!  so  many  times.  Again  we  are  out  in  the 
far-back  of  New  South  Wales — out  on  the  salt- 
bush  plains,  in  the  drought : — 

"No  faintest  sign  of  distant  water  gKmmered, 

The  aching  eye  to  bless ; 

The  far  horizon  like  a  sword's  edge  shimmered, 
Keen,  gleaming,  pitiless." 

Presently  there  appears,  dragging  himself 
wearily,  a  swagman,  old  and  dead  beat.  As  we 
follow  his  halting  steps,  we  feel  the  desolation, 
the  scorching  of  the  sun,  and  the  slow  passing 
of  the  long  day.  And  when  the  sun  is  sinking 


234  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

low,  he  comes  suddenly  on — the  Stranger.  He 
is  lying  under  a  clump  of  salt-bush,  dying  of 
thirst,  and  the  broken  old  swagman  kneels  to  give 
him  the  last  of  his  water: — 

"Behold   a  miracle!     For  when  that  Other 

Had  drunk,  he  rose  and  cried, 
'Let  us  pass  on.'     As  brother  might  with  brother, 
So  went  they,  side  by  side." 

But  old  Andy,  the  swagman,  is  done  for.  As 
they  travel,  in  the  early  hours  of  that  night,  the 
stars  reel,  and  he  falls  in  his  tracks : — 

"Beneath  the  moonlight,  with  the  weird,  wan  glitter 

Of  salt-bush  all  around, 
He  lay.  .  .  ." 

It  is  the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  and  this  kindly 
old  rip,  for  whom  Christmas  Days  of  vinous  de- 
bauchery will  not  again  dawn,  hands  his  "cheque" 
to  the  Stranger. 

"To-morrow's  Christmas  Day:  God  knows  where  I'll  be 

By  then — I  don't;  but  you, 

Away  from  this  death's  hole  should  many  a  mile  be, 
At  Blake's,  on  the  Barcoo." 

"Nay !"  says  the  Stranger,  with  a  smile.  "You 
and  I  are  mates.  We  will  spend  our  Christmas 
together — in  heaven." 

A  grim  jest,  thinks  the  old  man;  yet  he  accepts 
the  wager,  dying  in  the  very  act. 

"St.  Peter  stood  at  the  celestial  portal, 
Gazing  down  gulfs  of  air.  .  .  ." 


A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA  235 

When  old  Andy's  spirit  happens  along,  greatly 
daring: — 

"I  want  my  mate !" 

Behind  those  doors  lay  the  "glory  unbeholden." 
Angelic  hosts  were  bursting  into  the  anthem  of 
the  Nativity,  and  Peter  at  the  wicket  chafed  to 
be  gone. 

"The  wrong  gate!"  he  cried,  and  this  humble 
old  spirit,  with  no  Wit  of  cockcrowing,  bows  to 
fate. 

Heed  him  not,  old  man !  A  greater  than  Peter 
has  given  you  rendezvous.  See! 

"The  gates  flew  wide.    The  Glory  unbeholden 

Of  mortal  eyes  was  there. 

He   gazed — this   trembling  sinner — at  the   golden 
Thrones,  terrible  and  fair, 

And  shuddered.     Then  down  through  the  living  splendour 

Came  One  unto  the  gate, 
Who  said,  with  outspread  hands,  in  accents  tender, 

'Andy!    /  am  your  mate!'" 

Let  me  think  if  I  can.  .  .  .  There  was  that 
other  sweet  singer  of  Australia — a  woman,  divine 
of  voice,  strong  of  brain.  We  talked  of  melody, 
and  I  told  her  the  miserere  in  "Trovatore"  excelled 
all.  She  did  not  gainsay;  but  why  should  she*? 
my  ear  for  melody  is  quite  acute.  Master  in  this, 
the  palm  must  rest  with  Verdi;  deny  me  his 
miserere,  and  I  shall  win  you  over  with  the  in- 
cantation of  the  priestess  in  "Aida."  Once  I  slept 
at  Assouan,  on  that  island  in  the  Nile,  and  at 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

dead  of  night  awoke.  It  was  not  the  river  I  heard, 
not 

".  .  .  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds," 

but  the  thin,  silvery  notes  of  the  violins,  prelude 
to  the  third  act,  that  portray  this  very  lapping 
of  immemorial  Nile  at  its  banks.  That's  genius; 
but  "Aida"  is  all  genius;  was  it  not  written  to 
order — the  greatest  work  in  that  galley.  Verdi 
writes,  Ismail  pays,  and  we  buy  the  Canal  shares 
— so  runs  the  world  away. 

All  the  operas  are  surging  in  me  now.  An 
immense  orchestra  has  tuned  up  in  my  head;  it 
is  playing  in  an  unknown  key,  and  the  conductor 
is  rapping.  Now  for  a  "thunder  of  lyres."  .  .  . 
That  is  the  chant  and  barcarolle  from  "Die 
Stumme,"  the  first  I  ever  heard,  back  in  the  Stutt- 
gart days,  when  Anton  Schott  rode  on  his  white 
horse.  .  .  .  Incomparable  Plangon !  It  was  surely 
your  great  bass  that  started  the  serenade  to  Mar- 
guerite. .  .  .  Yet  why  should  I  finish  it*?  ... 
"Till  she  have  a  ring.  Hal  ha!  ha!"  Poor  girl ; 
the  preenings  of  an  elderly  Schwerlein  cost  her 
that.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  Venice  four  months  ago.  They  played 
"Boheme"  there,  a  new  opera.  There  is  a  time 
when  snow  falls  on  the  stage,  and  soft,  white  snow 
was  falling  in  the  music.  That  falling  will  live 
in  my  brain — that,  and  a  bell  that  chimed  at 
Malamocco,  across  the  lagoon.  .  .  . 


A  GRAVE  IN  SAMOA  237 

Wagner  died  in  Venice,  too.  That  night,  I  like 
to  think,  a  storm-cloud  burst  in  the  North,  by  the 
shores  of  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  amid  the  thunder 
and  the  spindrift  aerial  trumpets  proclaimed  a 
motiv.  Two  ravens  flew  out  of  the  mist.  Credu- 
lous listeners  swore  to  the  stately  Walhalla  chords, 
others  to  the  rushing  of  unseen  squadrons,  and  the 
sturdy  shouts  of  Walkiiren,  convoying,  as  of 
ancient  wont,  a  dead  hero.  They  lied!  The 
trumpets  were  bidden  play  for  no  victor,  but  for 
a  soul  storm-tossed  and  world-weary.  It  was  the 
haunting  cry  of  the  Dutchman  rose  that  night 
above  the  tempest,  as  Wagner  passed. 

I  hold  him  Germany's  greatest.  Where  can 
she  point  to  a  brain  of  like  calibre,  to  a  subtlety 
so  profound  ?  Has  Wagner  been  fathomed  ?  Has 
the  intellect  put  into  the  "Ring,"  into  the  "fire- 
music" — into  "Siegfried,"  that  pinnacle  in  the 
world  of  art — yet  been  gauged1? 

Where  am  I?  .  .  .  Lying  on  Stevenson's 
grave,  with  a  touch  of  the  sun  ...  I  think  I'm 
better! 

I  rose  to  my  feet.  My  eyes  and  brain  now; 
took  in  all  the  beauty  of  the  scene: — 

"I  saw 

Here  no  sepulchre  built, 
In  the  laurell'd  rock,  o'er  the  blue 
Naples  Bay,  for  a  sweet 
Tender  Virgil !     No  tomb 
On  Ravenna  sands,  in  the  shade 


238  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Of  Ravenna  pines,  for  a  high 
Austere    Dante!      No   grave 
By  the  Avon  side,  in  the  bright 
Stratford  meadows,  for  thee 
Shakespeare!  .  .  ." 

For  this  grave  lies  in  a  clearing  on  the  hill- 
top, on  whose  sides  the  tropical  forest  grows  rich 
and  luxuriant.  Far  down  below  are  coco-nut 
groves,  beyond  them  the  roofs  of  Apia,  the  blue 
sea,  and  the  white  line  of  the  surf  as  it  beats  the 
reef.  I  plucked  tropical  ferns,  that  I  laid  at  his 
head  and  his  feet;  then  I  read  the  raised  lettering 
of  his  charming  farewell.  Feeling  my  own  man 
again,  I  started  down  the  mountain. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MINE  OWN   PEOPLE 

TODAY  we  are  to  scour  the  countryside  of  Eng- 
land. Springtime  is  here,  so  that  the  hedges  are 
white  with  their  May,  and  wild  violets  grow  in 
their  shade;  in  the  woods  of  oak  and  elm  and 
beech,  primroses  and  wild  hyacinths  are  out,  and 
the  meadows  are  yellow  with  cowslips.  You  will 
find  no  countryside  in  the  world  so  green,  nowhere 
a  finer  soil,  nowhere  sweeter  grass ;  and  because  of 
these  things,  nowhere  such  a  quality  of  food.  Eng- 
land's beef  and  mutton  and  venison,  her  poultry 
and  game,  cannot  anywhere  be  equalled.  Her 
field  crops  are  of  the  best.  Her  fruits  and  veg- 
etables of  a  rarer  flavour.  The  bread,  the  milk, 
the  cheese,  the  bacon,  the  beer  of  a  fineness  un- 
known in  the  South,  and  in  no  other  coastal  waters 
are  such  fish. 

These  fine  foods  have  been  the  very  foundation 
stones  of  our  race,  and  have  combined,  in  times 
gone  by,  to  the  building  up  of  prodigious  men: 
to  the  building  of  Newton,  profoundest  of  the 
world's  intellects ;  to  the  building  of  Shakespeare, 
poet  of  all  time ;  to  the  making  of  Cromwell,  who 

239 


240  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

paved  the  way  for  your  freedom  and  mine ;  to  the 
making  of  Nelson,  who  sealed  our  race  for  ever 
to  the  sea;  to  the  making  of  Harvey,  whose  dis- 
coveries about  the  blood  came  full-fledged,  perfect 
from  his  brain,  and  many,  many  more  of  the 
greatest  of  mankind. 

A  race  so  singled  out  by  Nature,  so  exalted  by 
its  great  men,  was  destined  to  burst  its  island 
barriers,  to  grasp  at  what  the  outer  world  had  to 
offer;  and  for  some  hundreds  of  years  now,  daring 
and  determined  Britons  have  sailed  forth  to  dis- 
cover, to  annex,  to  consolidate. 

They  sailed  West,  and  Virginia  and  Pennsyl- 
vania were  peopled  by  them.  North  America  was 
launched  on  British  beef  and  beer.  Newfound- 
land was  annexed,  that  bleak  island  of  morass  and 
stunted  forest,  and  later  Canada,  a  kindlier  region, 
where,  in  autumn,  they  saw  the  maple  forests 
turning  to  gold.  Down  in  the  western  tropics  they 
first  annexed  Barbados;  taking,  as  time  went  by, 
Jamaica,  Belize  and  other  colonies  from  the 
Spaniards;  Trinidad,  St.  Lucia  and  many  more 
islands  from  the  French;  Demerara  from  the 
Dutch ;  building  up  a  Caribbean  heritage. 

But  it  was  the  East  where  their  destiny  lay. 
It  was  to  the  East — especially  to  India — that  the 
thoughts,  the  imagination  of  great  men  in  England 
used  to  turn;  and  to  the  East  the  adventurous 
sooner  or  later  set  forth.  The  way  thither  by  sea 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 

lay  South;  and  so  the  annexing  of  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  came  about.  Out  of  it  were  to  grow 
possessions  all  over  Africa;  but  its  first  and  only 
value  was  that  of  a  harbour — the  harbour  of 
Table  Bay — on  the  direct  sailing  route  to  India. 

British  merchants  were  in  India  before  the  year 
1600,  and  soon  our  ships,  carrying  traders  and 
explorers,  were  at  home  in  the  Persian  Gulf,  along 
the  coasts  of  Arabia,  in  the  Red  Sea,  and  down 
to  the  island  of  cloves — Zanzibar.  In  1640, 
Madras  was  founded,  the  first  annexation  in  the 
East,  and  soldiers  and  administrators,  the  first  in 
a  long  and  distinguished  line,  began  to  arrive  from 
England.  Calcutta  was  founded.  Ceylon  was  to 
come  our  way  later.  Bencoolen,  in  Sumatra,  was 
taken,  Penang  was  ours,  and  our  traders  and 
explorers  passed  down  the  Straits  and  entered  the 
China  Seas.  Later,  under  the  lead  of  great  Cap- 
tain Cook,  they  were  to  take  Australia,  Tasmania, 
New  Zealand,  and  half  the  islands  in  the  South 
Pacific. 

But  always  India  lay  at  the  back  of  our  mind. 
All  the  glamour,  the  imagination,  the  vague  East- 
ward longing  centred  there.  As  our  grip  upon 
her  strengthened,  so  that  instinct  strengthened, 
telling  us  our  ways  lay  together — the  way  of  the 
masterful,  grasping,  full-blooded  islanders  of  the 
cold,  and  the  way  of  the  sun-shrivelled,  selfless, 
mystical  men  of  the  heat — for  better  or  for  worse. 


THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

These  instincts  and  longings  to  grasp  the  world, 
and  especially  to  root  ourselves  in  India,  were 
soon  to  be  focussed  in  one  of  those  prodigious 
men  of  ours. 

Consider  his  story.  Robert  Clive,  a  boy  of 
eighteen,  lands  in  Madras.  He  has  come  out  a 
clerk  to  the  East  India  Company.  He  is  un- 
known; has  no  money,  no  prospects.  His  duties 
are  mere  routine;  his  future,  saving  the  un- 
expected, must  be  the  trivial  round.  Now,  what 
could  the  unexpected  be?  Hah!  The  French 
are  installed  near  by,  at  Pondicherry.  Their 
prestige  is  fast  rising,  and  that  of  the  British,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  natives,  is  going  down.  The 
French,  and  the  native  princes  who  encourage 
them,  must  be  wiped  out  if  the  British  are  ever 
to  control  in  India.  And  so  there  comes  fighting 
before  Pondicherry,  opportunity,  and  the  young 
civilian  turns  out  a  born  leader.  He  is  now  placed 
in  charge  of  certain  attacks,  succeeds,  gains  his 
commission,  goes  on  succeeding,  and  before  long 
is  Commandant  of  Madras,  conqueror  of  the  great 
Dupleix,  victorious  all  along  the  line.  The  fight- 
ing, against  both  the  French  and  the  natives, 
waxes  fiercer.  The  young  leader  performs  mir- 
acles of  daring,  and  is  worshipped  by  his  men. 
He  is  undefeated;  he  has  raised  British  prestige 
in  all  India.  Now  in  poor  health,  he  returns  for 
awhile  to  England. 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 

The  years  pass.  It  is  now  1756,  and  Suraj-ud- 
dauleh,  Nawab  of  Bengal,  perpetrates  upon  the 
British  at  Calcutta  the  massacre  of  the  Black 
Hole.  Heavy  punishment  awaits  him,  and  be- 
hind his  punishment  lie  great  political  issues,  A 
big  man  is  needed  for  the  work,  and  Colonel  Rob- 
ert Clive,  aged  30,  comes  sailing  up  from  Madras. 
He  takes  the  field  with  1,000  Europeans — more 
than  he  has  led  in  all  his  career — and  2,000  na- 
tives, and  marches  to  where  the  Nawab  awaits 
him  with  50,000  men. 

They  meet  at  Plassey,  a  hundred  miles  from 
Calcutta,  and  the  fate  of  India  lies  in  the  melting 
pot.  A  council  of  war  is  held  under  some  mango 
trees.  Clive  tells  his  officers  that  he  has  bought 
Mir  Jafir,  the  Nawab's  general,  promising  him, 
if  he  will  desert  at  the  critical  moment,  his  mas- 
ter's shoes.  "Will  he  stay  bought1?  Are  we 
strong  enough  to  attack  without  him1?"  asks  Clive. 
The  gallant  Eyre  Coote,  second  in  command,  is 
all  for  attack;  but  not  until  Mir  Jafir's  message 
comes  does  Clive  make  final  decision. 

I  journeyed  to  Plassey,  and  stood  out  on  the 
lonely  plain;  with  a  chart,  and  the  cement  cairns 
now  placed  by  the  Indian  Government,  I  recon- 
structed the  battle.  I  saw  where  Clive's  force 
had  lain  entrenched,  where  the  French  gunners 
of  the  enemy  had  stood,  and  where  the  Nawab's 
own  troops  were  drawn  up.  Nearest  of  all,  and 


244  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

right  on  our  flank,  had  been  the  army  of  Mir 
Jafir.  But  that  crafty  person  was  watching 
events.  He  saw  that  Clive,  as  ever,  was  gaining 
ground;  and  repairing  to  the  Nawab's  tent  dur- 
ing the  battle,  put  so  great  a  fear  in  that  ruler's 
heart  that  he  fled  the  field. 

The  immense  prestige  of  Clive,  his  weird  mili- 
tary skill,  and  his  cunning,  won  us  Plassey.  He 
had  played  the  oriental  at  his  own  game,  and 
beaten  him.  Bengal,  the  heart  and  the  core  of 
India,  was  ours  for  the  taking.  The  Black  Hole 
of  Calcutta  was  avenged;  the  little  Madras  clerk 
had  entered  on  immortality. 

#  #  *  j}s  *  %. 

A  roll  of  drums  in  the  darkness.  Quick  cries 
of  command.  The  tramp  of  many  men.  As  I 
spring  from  my  bed  the  bagpipes  skirl,  and  a 
Gurkha  regiment  goes  marching  by.  It  is  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  month  December,  the 
year  1911;  today,  after  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  an  Emperor  again  enters  Delhi. 

A  British  battalion  comes  marching  in  the  dark- 
ness; then  in  succession  come  Sikhs,  Rajputs,  Brit- 
ish and  native  cavalry,  more  battalions  of  the  line, 
batteries  of  guns.  The  music  is  continuous  now, 
with  distant  bugle  calls,  hoarsely  shouted  orders, 
and  a  steady  tramping;  by  sun  up,  down  this  one 
road,  forty  regiments  have  gone  to  meet  the  Em- 
peror. 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  245 

Presently  I  come  to  the  Maidan.  Lines  of 
soldiers  guard  the  royal  route,  and  there  seethes 
behind  them  a  white  throng,  turbanned  in  many 
hues.  Tens  of  thousands  stream  out  of  Delhi, 
cluster  on  the  great  stairway  of  Jama  Masjid, 
swarm  upon  every  roof;  and,  where  Chandi 
Chowk,  the  street  of  the  jewellers,  enters  the  city, 
become  wedged  and  immovable. 

A  general,  white-plumed,  with  his  aides,  gallops 
by  in  a  final  survey.  A  governor's  carriage  and 
four,  with  the  scarlet  and  gold  liveries,  and 
princes  with  their  retinues  pass  down  to  the  cita- 
del. A  million  natives  stand  expectant.  The 
British,  some  thousands  in  number,  have  taken 
their  stance,  and  within  the  fort — the  red-sand- 
stone citadel  of  Shah  Jahan — the  high  officials 
of  India  and  all  the  ruling  princes  await  the  royal 
train. 

A  gun  booms  the  first  salute.  While  it  yet  re- 
verberates a  hoarse  cry  passes,  is  taken  up  again 
and  again,  and  as  seventy  thousand  soldiers  stand 
to  attention,  the  royal  standard  floats  out  over 
the  fort. 

The  Emperor  has  arrived.  Within  the  royal 
shamiana  he  is  receiving  homage  from  the  princes. 
Some  one  hundred  and  forty  prepare  to  follow 
him  through  the  city,  and  only  proud  Udaipur, 
whose  ancestor  cursed  Akbar,  and  Akbar's  Delhi 


246  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

for  ever,  will  skirt  the  city,  and  meet  him  at  the 
durbar  beyond. 

The  salute  swells  to  one  hundred  and  one  guns, 
and  when  it  merges  into  rifle  fusillades,  all  eyes 
turn  to  the  fort.  In  the  gateway,  between  the 
stone  elephants,  a  horseman  appears,  a  herald 
trumpeter.  A  troop  of  cavalry,  with  their  music, 
follow  him  out  across  the  Maidan,  and  so  the 
long  procession  begins.  After  many  squadrons, 
drive  the  Commissioner  of  Delhi,  the  Chief  Com- 
missioners of  Provinces,  the  Lieutenant  Gover- 
nors, the  Governors  of  Madras  and  Bombay  with 
their  escorts.  A  fanfare  is  heard,  and  the  head 
of  the  King's  procession  emerges.  Half  a  mile  of 
cavalry  seem  to  defile,  and  after  them  Delhi  Her- 
ald comes  riding,  the  royal  standard  bearer  and 
the  trumpeters.  Then  a  plumed  cavalcade,  all 
scarlet  and  gold,  with  blue  sashes  rides  past,  and 
in  the  middle  the  Emperor,  with  his  viceroy,  his 
generals,  his  suite,  and  in  his  immediate  train 
great  princes  like  Gwalior  and  Bikanir. 

He  goes  by  to  deep  British  cheers.  His  Indian 
people,  who  do  not  cheer,  receive  him  with  im- 
mense waving,  and  thousands,  who  even  stand  im- 
mobile, will  carry  this  moment  with  them  to  the 
grave.  Ere  he  has  entered  Chandi  Chowk,  come 
the  princes.  At  their  head,  four  white  horses  to 
his  chariot,  rides  the  new  Nizam,  prince  of  Hyder- 
abad, ruler  over  eleven  millions.  His  black  robe 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  247 

is  buttoned  at  the  neck,  his  turban  and  aigrette  are 
yellow.  The  British  Resident  sits  by  his  side,  his 
minister  of  state  opposite;  his  Arab  bodyguard 
ride  behind. 

The  Gaekwar  rides  next,  a  thick-set  Mahratta. 
In  white  muslin,  with  squat  red  turban,  he  makes 
small  appeal  to  the  eye ;  yet  he  is  the  second  prince 
in  India,  and  a  man  to  reckon  with.  He  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  Maharajah  of  Mysore.  Young, 
magnificent,  and  a  militant  Hindu,  he  is  wearing 
gigantic  emeralds,  and  the  crowd  receives  him 
well.  Hard  upon  him  there  follows  a  prince  ly- 
ing back  on  the  cushions.  He  is  the  ruler  of 
Kashmir,  an  oldish  man,  exhausted,  and  drugged, 
it  may  be,  for  this  day  with  opium.  His  stal- 
wart bodyguard  follow. 

After  these,  as  is  the  precedent  of  India,  come 
the  princes  of  Rajputana.  At  their  head  today  is 
old  Jaipur,  and  his  bodyguard  ride  in  coats  of 
mail.  Later,  at  the  durbar^  he  was  to  kiss  his 
jewelled  sword,  lay  it  reverently  at  the  Sover- 
eign's feet,  and  I  saw  no  courtlier  act  in  Delhi. 
Udaipur,  the  first  Rajput,  as  we  know,  is  not  here. 
Bikanir  rides  behind  the  King.  The  boy  Jodhpur 
is  with  the  cadet  escort;  but  their  chariots  pass, 
their  caparisoned,  led  horses,  their  camels,  their 
riflemen,  their  musicians,  together  with  the  Ma- 
harajahs  of  Boondi  and  Kotah  and  Jaisalmer, 
and  all  that  is  gallant  in  Rajputana. 


248  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

The  procession  of  the  princes  defiles  for  two 
hours.  In  this  vast  India  exist  many,  many  di- 
verse races,  and  their  chiefs  are  here  today  from 
the  uttermost  confines.  Here  pass  statesmen,  men 
of  affairs,  great  social  figures,  escorted  by  their 
modern  troops,  and  Western  bands  of  music ;  and 
here,  in  their  due  precedence,  pass  outer  barbar- 
ians, followed  by  archers  and  spearmen  in  coats 
of  mail,  or  by  men  beating  gongs.  Travancore 
passes,  of  great  lineage,  suzerain  of  many  Brah- 
mins, who  goes  at  four  o'clock  each  morning  to 
his  devotions;  Kolhapur,  the  Mahratta,  of  the 
blood  of  great  Sivaji;  Patiala,  the  Sikh,  whose 
four  prancing  steeds  put  all  others  to  shame;  Pud- 
ukota,  English  gentleman  and  subtle  bridge- 
player;  Newanagar,  in  a  silver  coach,  puffed  out 
in  pink  silk,  greatest  batsman  in  a  generation  of 
cricket;  the  consumptive  boy  Cooch — Behar, 
death  already  in  his  face;  the  veiled  Begum  of 
Bhopal,  the  one  woman  among  them;  and  after 
them  wild  looking  Pathans  from  Hill  Tribe  and 
Frontier;  Mongols,  like  Sikkim,  or  Bhutan — but 
lately  come  under  the  flag;  Shans,  from  out 
Burma  way,  coated  in  scales  of  gold — one  hun- 
dred and  forty  rulers  of  the  Empire  of  India, 
whose  words  are  law,  whose  persons  are  sacred  to 
millions  of  subjects,  yet  who  are  all  here  to  pay 
homage,  to  follow  in  the  King  of  England's  train. 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  249 

.You  have  seen  Clive  laying  our  foundations  in 
India;  I  shall  show  you  another  laying  them  in 
the  farther  East. 

When  the  East  India  Company  took  Java  from 
the  Dutch,  in  the  year  1811,  one  of  the  Com- 
pany's officials  in  the  Straits,  by  name  Raffles,  was 
installed  Lieutenant  Governor.  He  ruled  wisely 
and  constructively,  gaining  the  respect  of  the 
people,  giving  the  island  laws  suitable  to  it,  build- 
ing fine  roads,  even  laying  out  the  botanical  gar- 
dens at  Buitenzorg — the  finest  in  the  world.  But 
when,  after  five  years,  it  was  decided  that  Java 
be  handed  back,  he  opposed  this  so  tenaciously 
that  he  fell  into  disgrace,  almost  suffered  dismis- 
sal; and  we  hear  of  him  as  reduced  to  the  Resi- 
dency of  Bencoolen. 

The  Dutch  again  becoming  aggressive,  our  trad- 
ing rights  in  the  Straits  were  menaced,  and  John 
Company  took  stock  of  the  position.  Penang  and 
Malacca,  our  main  settlements,  were  none  too  well 
located,  and  word  was  sent  to  Raffles,  the  most 
knowledgeable  Briton  in  those  parts,  to  search 
out  and  secure  some  more  central,  strategic  station 
without  delay. 

His  knowledge  was  unique.  And  within  a 
month  or  two  he  had  acquired  the  island  of  Singa- 
pore. It  lay  at  the  extreme  point  of  the  Malay 
Peninsula,  separated  by  half  a  mile  of  water. 
Twenty-two  miles  by  twelve,  rather  larger  than 


#50  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  Isle  of  Wight,  it  was  covered  with  primeval 
forest,  and  save  for  a  fishing  village  of  Malays 
was  uninhabited.  The  seller  was  the  Sultan  of 
Johore ;  the  price  paid  him  was  the  eastern  equiv- 
alent of  one  barleycorn. 

Raffles  had  secured  the  most  strategic  point  in 
the  East,  the  choicest  site  in  the  Seven  Seas. 
Every  vessel  sailing  to  the  far  East,  unless  it 
makes  detour  of  hundreds  of  miles,  must  pass 
down  the  Straits  of  Malacca.  On  their  West  lies 
Sumatra,  on  their  East,  Malaya;  at  the  South 
end,  where  they  narrow,  a  host  of  small  islands — 
broken  off  fragments,  as  it  were,  of  Sumatra — lie 
across  the  Straits ;  and  the  safest,  deepest  channel, 
sometimes  but  a  stone's  throw  wide,  is  that  be- 
tween the  nearest  islands  and  Singapore  itself. 

This  was  in  1819.  Soon  afterwards  Raffles, 
his  health  affected,  and  still  in  disgrace,  returned 
to  England,  where  he  lived  in  London;  and  in 
these  years  he  founded  the  Zoological  Gardens. 
By  1826,  at  the  age  of  forty-six,  he  was  dead.  He 
was  one  of  the  greatest  Englishmen,  yet  the  very 
site  of  his  grave,  in  the  Parish  Church  of  Hendon, 
was  not  known. 

In  April,  1914,  this  church  was  being  enlarged, 
and  under  the  site  of  the  new  Sanctuary  they 
found  a  vault.  Here  lay  Raffles,  and  here  (no 
matter  how)  I  presently  descended.  The  coffin 
lay  by  itself.  The  wooden  case  was  rotted  away, 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  251 

the  leaden  shell  itself  far  gone.  It  was  the  coffin 
of  a  small,  small  man.  A  shield  bore  his  super- 
scription; the  which,  as  I  dusted,  came  loose,  and 
underneath  it  a  hole  was  corroded,  larger  than  my 
hand.  In  all  respect  and  reverence,  for  I  hold 
him  one  of  our  greatest,  I  took  out  his  shoulder- 
blade  for  a  few  moments.  When  I  came  out  of 
the  vault,  the  masons  bricked  it  up;  so  that  be- 
tween his  burying,  and  the  blowing  of  the  Last 
Trump,  I  am  the  only  one  who  has  had  truck  with 
Stamford  Raffles. 

That  Raffles  knew  the  value  of  Singapore,  his 
report  to  the  East  India  Company  bears  witness; 
he  foretold  its  future  in  unmistakable  words.  Yet 
even  he,  coming  back  to  the  scene  a  hundred  years 
later,  would  surely  be  staggered.  Where  the 
Malay  fishing  village  rested,  there  rises  a  city 
with  a  population  of  300,000.  Forty  races  of 
men  walk  its  streets.  Miles  of  wharves,  basins 
and  dry  docks  abut  on  that  narrow  waterway.  It 
is  the  eighth  port  of  the  world;  one  of  the  greats 
geographical  assets  of  the  British  Empire;  and 
the  nucleus  of  a  vast  hinterland,  which  keeps 
growing  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Singapore,  in  the 
main,  is  a  Chinese  city.  It  is  true  that  thousands 
of  Malays,  the  people  of  the  country,  walk  the 
streets;  that  there  are  Japanese,  Javanese,  Arabs 
and  the  like;  that  there  are  many  Tamils,  Sikhs, 
and  other  races  of  India;  that  there  is  the  Eu- 


252  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

ropean  quarter,  with  its  white-suited  men;  but  so 
preponderating  are  the  Chinese,  that  these  others 
seem  hardly  to  count.  The  city  is  Chinese — one 
sees  that  at  a  glance;  how  much  of  the  business, 
the  real  estate,  the  wealth,  is  Chinese  too,  is  more 
gradually  revealed.  So  imperial  in  its  setting, 
Singapore  is  now  capital  of  a  great  hinterland. 
There  are  the  Straits  Settlements.  There  are  the 
Federated  Malay  States.  There  are  other  Malay 
States,  come  but  of  late  under  our  protection. 
Nearly  the  whole  Peninsula  is  ruled  from  Singa- 
pore. 

Several  decades  ago  all  these  States  were  one 
great  forest.  Malays  were  settled  in  the  valleys, 
and  about  the  rivers,  and  the  petty  Sultans  strove 
together  unceasingly.  In  course  of  time  a  British 
Resident  appeared  at  each  Sultan's  court.  He 
was  duly  followed  by  British  miners  and  plant- 
ers, and  by  a  rush  of  Chinese,  and  so  the  new  era 
set  in.  The  gold  mines  they  opened  were  not 
profitable,  losing  their  values  at  shallow  depth; 
but  immense  deposits  of  alluvial  tin  were  found, 
and  these,  worked  mostly  by  Chinamen,  have 
yielded,  and  continue  to  yield  large  profits. 

Then  came  far-sighted  Britishers  who  cleared 
the  forests,  and  planted  rubber  trees — the  rubber 
of  the  Amazon  Valley.  The  land  was  ideal  for 
this,  inferior  only  to  the  Amazon  itself,  and  in  a 
few  years  many  thousands  of  acres  had  been 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  253 

cleared,  many  millions  of  trees  planted.  Later, 
came  the  first  tappings,  a  quickly  increasing  out- 
put, and  the  trade's  acceptance  of  the  plantation 
product;  the  Singapore  hinterland  had  evolved 
an  industry  of  the  first  importance. 

The  Government  of  the  Malay  States,  which 
meanwhile  had  federated,  has  not  been  idle. 
Levying  export  dues  on  the  two  great  staples,  tin 
and  rubber,  its  income  has  not  only  exceeded  ex- 
penditure, but  may  be  said  to  have  burst  the  treas- 
ury open.  It  is  the  richest  government,  relatively, 
in  the  world.  Its  schools,  hospitals,  bridges,  roads 
and  the  like  are  the  best  money  can  buy.  It  owns 
the  railroads;  it  holds  priceless  assets  in  Crown 
lands;  it  has  built  an  elegant  little  capital  at 
Kwala  Lumpor;  further,  the  federated  sultans, 
emerging  from  their  forests,  meet  together  and 
vote  a  Dreadnought  to  the  Empire. 

Malaya  is  become  a  planter's  paradise.  End- 
less plantations  line  the  roadsides.  Now  it  is  a 
coco-nut  forest,  now  a  stretch  of  pineapples. 
Here  is  pepper;  there  tapioca;  and  the  Malays 
still  plant  their  rice.  But  above  all  there  is  rub- 
ber. In  the  cleanly  weeded  soil,  the  trees  wave 
over  hill  and  dale,  running  sometimes  for  miles 
unbroken.  Most  have  passed  their  first  maturity 
— a  girth  of  eighteen  inches,  three  feet  from  the 
ground ;  this  is  tapping  girth,  and  attached  to  each 
tree  is  a  small  cup  for  the  latex.  The  rubber  is 


254  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

almost  exclusively  British.  Where  Malay  or 
Chinaman  planted,  there  he  left  the  trees  to  their 
fate;  and  there,  as  to  the  sower  in  scripture,  have 
thorns  sprung  up  and  choked  him.  It  is  awful, 
this  Malayan  forest  growth !  Clear  a  space,  and 
leave  it  alone^in  a  month  it  is  unrecognisable;  in 
a  year  it  is  blotted  from  all  knowledge. 

In  Perak  State  lie  the  principal  tin  washings. 
Up  out  of  these  man-made  cavities  used  to  come 
Chinamen  in  a  stream,  carrying  the  tin-bearing 
soil  in  baskets.  This  was  primitive.  Now,  the 
more  enlightened  owners  have  installed  suction 
pumps,  and  Australian  and  London  sompanies 
have  erected  dredges.  As  we  reach  the  coast,  and 
Penang,  rubber  plantations  again  cover  the  land. 

Penang,  oldest  of  the  Straits  Settlements,  is  an 
island  one  half,  the  size  of  Singapore,  and  like  it, 
lies  hard  against  the  mainland.  Mountainous  and 
forest  clad,  it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  islands  of  the 
East.  The  botanical  gardens,  at  a  distance  of 
several  miles  from  the  harbour,  lie  in  a  basin  of 
the  hills;  and  not  those  of  Buitenzorg,  not  those 
of  Rio  de  Janeiro,  can  show  such  forest  setting. 
I  suppose  the  spot  to  have  been  indicated  by  Fran- 
cis Light,  first  Governor  of  the  island,  another 
great  Englishman  in  this  part  of  the  world. 

Georgetown,  the  capital,  large  and  prosperous, 
is  a  great  Chinese  depot.  Singapore,  as  we  have 
seen,  is  Chinese.  Everything  is  Chinese.  These 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  255 

people  are  the  finest  colonists  we  could  have  had ; 
to  say  that,  under  our  governance,  they  are  the 
making  of  tylalaya,  is  but  statement  of  a  bald 
fact. 

England's  foreign  policy,  as  I  see  it,  can  be 
summed  up  in  four  words :  "Prestige  in  the  East." 
The  keystone  of  this  is  "Solidity  in  India,"  and 
to  that  I  add:  "Friendship  with  the  Chinese." 
We  are  not  so  strong  in  China  as  once  we  were. 
Parkes  has  gone.  Hart  has  gone;  we  have  lost 
ground  to  Japan.  All  the  nations  look  longingly 
to  China.  Today  we  find  rivals,  where  fifty 
years  ago  were  none;  but  there  is  a  subtle  some- 
thing between  Briton  and  Chinaman  that  should 
win  out  for  us  again. 

This  combination  of  Briton  with  Chinaman  is 
a  peculiarly  happy  one.  It  is  not  only  a  union  of 
the  two  world  personalities,  but  of  the  two  great 
colonisers.  Each  in  his  own  way  has  unrivalled 
energy,  exceptional  self-reliance,  and  each,  in  the 
development  of  new  countries,  an  easy  mastery. 

Glance  at  Hong  Kong !  Here  is  a  small,  moun-, 
tainous  island  off  the  coast  of  China.  Ceded  to 
us  all  but  barren,  a  town  springs  up,  becomes  in 
time  a  city,  and  now  overflows  the  mountain  sides. 
The  harbour,  pan  passu,  becomes  the  greatest  in 
the  East,  and  a  vast  depot  of  trade.  Hong  Kong 
is  still  growing.  More  and  more  Chinese  are  com- 
ing under  her  flag.  But  long  ago  she  showed 


256  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Briton  and  Chinaman  what  they  could  achieve  to- 
gether. 

Here,  in  Malaya,  they  have  allied  forces  again. 
Beginning  at  Singapore,  a  marvellously  chosen 
base,  they  have  already  advanced  five  hundred 
miles.  In  their  wake  has  followed  magic  pros- 
perity, and  a  momentum  gathers  which  should 
carry  them  further  yet. 

Why  should  the  partnership  end  here*?  My 
vision  of  it,  frankly,  is  a  vision  of  a  second  In- 
dia— an  India  based  on  the  Chinaman :  an  Empire 
embracing  the  Peninsula,  stretching  from  Singa- 
pore through  Bangkok  to  Bhamo,  and  by  sea,  from 
the  Straits  of  Malacca  to  near  Chittagong.  Bur- 
ma and  the  Shan  States  would  fall  naturally  to  it. 
The  outside  Malays  would  come  in.  Western 
Siam  would  belong,  and  sooner  or  later,  I  believe, 
much  of  Yunnan.  A  second  India!  Based 
neither  on  greed,  nor  land  hunger,  this  should  be 
deliberately  created  for  safety.  I  would  offset 
the  Hindu  of  Clive  with  the  Chinaman  of  Raf- 
fles. I  would  balance  the  two  great  races  of  the 
East. 

"Si    Monumentum    Requiris "       If    you 

would  understand  England's  meaning  to  the 
world,  consider  the  East,  gaze  upon  India.  If 
you  do  not  know  the  East,  and  India,  and  what 
India  means,  then  hold  your  peace.  For  you  do 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  257 

not  know  England.  Our  stability  is  bound  up 
with  India.  How  much  bound  up,  only  those 
who  govern  and  those  who  have  lived  in  this  east- 
ern empire  can  realise.  India  means  everything 
to  us.  She  means  more  than  all  the  colonies  to- 
gether. She  is  linked  to  us  hand  and  foot;  they 
but  by  sentiment,  which  a  moment's  strain  might 
sever.  She  has  brought  out  the  best  that  is  in 
us;  she  has  rounded  our  character.  England's 
strength,  and  her  prestige,  is  her  lordship  in  the 
East,  her  control  in  India;  when  we  lose  these,, 
our  place  in  the  world  is  gone.  We  could  not 
withdraw  if  we  would.  If  we  withdrew,  a  hun- 
dred jarring  races  would  be  at  each  other's  throats, 
and  the  butchery  of  pusillanimous  Hindus  for 
their  wealth  and  their  women  would  be  appall- 
ing. If  we  withdrew,  it  would  be  but  to  make 
room  for  someone  else.  We  must  be  in  India  for 
all  time. 

Who  are  those  who  denounce  us  about  India? 
I  tell  them  they  do  not  know  the  facts.  We  ex- 
ploit the  country — of  course  we  do — but  not  cyni- 
cally. We  draw  wealth  from  India.  But  the 
Indians  are  fast  piling  up  wealth  themselves. 
Look  at  Bombay!  Where  will  you  find  richer 
communities  than  the  Parsees,  the  Bohras,  the 
Banians?  Look  at  Rangoon,  where  owners  re- 
fuse £10,000  an  acre  for  land  on  the  foreshore! 
Look  at  the  native  wealth  stored  in  the  Punjab, 


258  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

in  Benares,  in  Calcutta!  The  currency  of  India 
is  silver;  yet  I  estimate  that  seven  hundred  mil- 
lion sovereigns  have  gone  into  India,  and  will 
never  come  out  again.  It  has  been  written :  "gold 
is  a  metal  dug  up  in  Africa,  to  be  buried  in  India," 
and  as  things  look  now,  all  the  gold  in  circulation 
will  eventually  disappear  there.  So  much  for 
British  greed! 

No,  the  argument  is  unsound;  the  British  have 
put  more  into  India  than  they  ever  took  out. 
There  is  some  unrest  in  India.  There  is  in  all 
lands.  It  comes  in  this  case  from  a  fractional 
minority,  half-educated,  unused,  and  dissatisfied, 
who  think  they  can  govern  themselves.  This  mi- 
nority is  largely  Hindu:  if  we  withdrew,  they 
would  go  down  before  the  frontier  tribes — the 
followers  of  Mahomet — as  corn  before  the  reaper. 
But  we  make  mistakes  too.  We  encourage  young 
Indians  to  be  educated  in  England.  They  go  to 
the  universities,  they  mix  with  us,  they  are  treated 
as  social  equals.  Then  they  go  home,  and  are 
treated  as  inferiors.  Is  it  surprising  that  they 
nurse  anti-British  ideals'?  The  caste  of  the 
Anglo-Indian  is  rigid  as  that  of  the  Hindu.  With 
the  natives,  if  he  is  not  genial,  he  at  least  is  just; 
but  the  Eurasians — half-caste  men  of  his  own 
blood — he  cruelly  ignores.  Yet  I  have  found  all 
men  human.  These  men  of  colour  would  re- 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  259 

spond;  treat  them  with  consideration,  and  they 
will  help  you  to  hold  India. 

These  poor  peoples  of  India — for  they  are 
mostly  peasants  and  mostly  poor — are  a  sacred 
charge  on  us.  They  look  to  the  white  man  to  pro- 
tect them,  to  hold  the  scales  of  justice.  Educa- 
tion they  do  not  need :  it  is  futile  as  yet ;  missions, 
too,  are  doubtful;  but  an  assured  food  supply, 
medical  treatment,  irrigation,  good  land  laws, 
the  control  of  usurers  and  extortioners — these  are 
the  things  England  is  called  on  to  provide,  and 
they  do  not  call  in  vain.  How  could  India  really 
govern  herself?  Whom  would  she  rally  round? 
Whom  would  she  look  to?  To  the  Nizam?  To 
the  Gaekwar?  To  some  Bengali  mystic?  To  a 
Brahmin?  To  a  Mahomedan?  To  a  Sikh?  To 
aMahratta?  To  a  Raj  put?  To  a  Ghurka?  To 
a  Pathan?  The  idea  is  fantastic.  India  is  not 
one  people,  but  a  hundred  peoples.  She  is  not 
swayed  by  one  prince,  but  by  a  hundred  princes. 
In  all  her  history  no  one  Indian  gained  her  will- 
ing allegiance,  and  those  who  gained  the  most 
won  and  held  by  the  sword.  There  was  Akbar — 
greatest  of  all.  Yet  he  rose  to  power  from  out  a 
sea  of  blood,  and  on  all  his  borders,  during  a  long 
reign,  there  was  continuous  war.  He  was  a  man 
of  the  truest  nobility,  of  the  deepest  religious  tol- 
erance, yet  but  few  of  the  princes  loved  him;  the 
rest  feared  him,  biding  their  time. 


260  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

An  independent  India  there  will  not  be.  In- 
dia is  bone  of  our  bone  by  now,  a  unit  deep  within 
the  British  Empire.  But  if  these  communities, 
these  different  races  ask  for  responsible  govern- 
ment within  that  empire — that  is  a  different  mat- 
ter. Can  we  refuse  this1?  Can  we  refuse  if  but 
one  in  a  hundred  understands*?  It  is  true  these^ 
people  are  dark  skinned.  They  are  Orientals. 
They  do  not  see  with  western  eyes.  They  never 
will.  But  they  are  our  own  people.  They  are 
lovable.  There  are  ties  between  us  stretching 
back  centuries;  and  again  I  say:  "if  they  ask  for 
this  thing,  can  we  refuse  it?" 

They  have  asked.  And  we,  with  great  search- 
ings  of  heart,  have  promised.  We  have  pledged 
ourselves  to  responsible  government,  or  something 
very  like  it,  in  India.  It  is  a  big  and  daring 
pledge.  A  landmark  in  our  history.  But  if  the 
Indians  "make  good,"  their  political  emancipa- 
tion now  stretches  clear  before  them ;  for  we  shall 
keep  our  pledge. 

I  believe  we  have  done  right.  I  believe  in  al- 
ways putting  responsibility.  But  I  do  not  expect 
the  Indians  to  make  good — certainly  not  in  our 
time.  There  are  individuals — there  are  always 
individuals — but  this  century  will  not  see  five 
per  cent,  of  the  people  fit  for  the  task.  That  they 
can  talk,  is  fully  granted.  That  many  Bengalis 
have  a  subtler  intellect  than  our  own,  is  granted. 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  261 

That  numerous  Sikhs  and  Mahrattas  have  a  cer- 
tain forcefulness,  those  who  know  them  will  ad- 
mit. But  that,  our  example  and  help  withdrawn, 
they  can  govern^  hold  the  balance  between  races 
and  religions,  deal  out  justice  to  rich  and  poor,  to 
the  Brahmin  and  the  outcast  alike,  handle  money 
honestly,  I  cannot  really  believe.  But  it  will  be 
a  r?re  experiment. 

Loving  England,  I  would  tell  of  her  strength; 
but  in  no  dithyramb :  loving  her,  I  must  show  you 
her  weakness  too.  Her  strength  is  her  "char- 
acter." The  character  of  the  British,  as  real  as 
it  is  intangible,  is  humanity's  best  asset.  This 
"character"  has  little  to  do  with  brains  or  morals. 
It  is  built  up  of  respect  for  the  law,  the  strongly 
developed  sense  of  justice,  liberty,  and  fair-play, 
a  fairly  high  standard  in  money  matters,  and  un- 
failing common  sense.  In  one  word,  it  is  balance. 
That  is  our  secret.  We  have  balance,  and  because 
of  it  have  been  called,  naturally  and  inevitably, 
to  rule  over  half  the  world.  Then  again,  we  are 
the  personality  among  the  nations — we,  and  the 
Chinese — and  the  richest  in  the  Old  World. 

These  things — our  balance,  our  personality,  our 
wealth — bring  us  the  respect  of  all  peoples.  We 
may  not  be  loved,  but  we  are  respected.  Our 
prestige  is  tremendous;  the  prestige  of  an  English 
gentleman  is  assured  all  over  the  earth. 


262  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

This  "balance"  of  ours,  this  ruling  facility,  is 
unquestioned;  yet  to  say  all  the  British  possess  it 
would  be  far  wide  of  the  mark.  I  speak  of  a 
million  or  two  million  individuals  in  each  genera- 
tion, men  and  women,  high  and  low,  who  leaven 
the  rest.  These,  who  know  instinctively  the  high- 
est interests  of  our  race,  have  always  counted,  and 
still  count  for  very  much  indeed.  It  is  only  yes- 
terday that  this  generation  of  them,  fighting  with 
their  backs  to  the  wall,  pulled  England  through 
her  peril. 

Among  us,  as  amongst  other  races,  it  is  the 
few  who  count;  to  class  the  ruck  of  England  su- 
perior to  the  ruck  of  France  or  Germany  would 
not  be  justified.  The  tradition  that  our  soldiers 
are  the  bravest,  our  sailors  the  best,  our  artisans 
the  most  skilful,  that,  in  general,  a  Briton  is  worth 
more  than  others,  will  not  hold;  with  us,  as  else- 
where, mediocrity  abounds.  We  have  character. 
Our  greatest  are  of  the  very  greatest ;  but  in  aver- 
age, we  are  neither  brainy  nor  brilliant.  Men- 
tally, French  or  Italians  are  more  subtle;  by  the 
side  of  educated  Russians  we  are  children,  and  in 
the  United  States  ten  new  thoughts  are  seething 
for  one  here.  As  a  nation  we  rank  mentally  low, 
and  to  complete  the  picture,  our  education  has 
been  appalling.  The  mass  of  our  people  are  dull 
and  insular.  They  have  their  good  points,  but 
mentality  is  not  of  them;  of  our  splendid  history 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  263 

they  know  little,  and  care  less,  they  often  go 
soggy  with  beer,  and  the  gorgeous  outer  world, 
with  its  peoples,  means  nothing  to  them  at  all. 
Without  her  two  million,  believe  me.  Britain 
would  cut  no  world  figure. 

When  the  Great  War  broke  out,  in  19.14,  we 
British  found  ourselves  up  against  a  new  kind 
of  reality.  At  home,  our  land  had  rested  in- 
violable well  nigh  a  thousand  years.  Abroad,  we 
had  built  up  our  Empire,  and  fought  our  wars 
against  native  races.  Now,  here  came  the  Ger- 
mans, a  white  race,  hurling  themselves  upon  us. 
It  was  the  blonde  brute,  the  Teuton  gone  mad; 
yet  it  was  unthinkable,  to  nineteen  Britons  in 
twenty,  that  he  could  strike  at  our  heart;  the 
British  Navy,  our  wealth,  our  resources,  our  pres- 
tige, placed  us  far  beyond  Germany's  reach. 

But  the  twentieth  man  knew.  Men  knew  who 
had  lived  in  Germany,  had  seen  her  pass  slowly, 
surely  under  the  obsession  of  welt-mack^  knew 
her  military  strength,  knew  her  to  be  organised  as 
one  man ;  knew,  and  knowing,  greatly  feared. 

And  they  were  right.  For  four  years  Britain 
passed  through  the  Valley  of  Death.  On  land, 
again  and  again,  our  armies  were  sent  reeling. 
Our  cities  were  bombed  from  the  air.  On  the 
seas — Nelson's  seas — our  warships  were  sunk, 
hundreds  of  our  merchantmen  blown  to  pieces. 


264  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

Our  wealth  was  dissipated;  our  credit  lowered  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  Britain  was  Britain  still, 
but  all  her  foundations  were  shaken. 

****** 

Now  the  war  is  over.  It  is  a  January  evening 
when  I  write,  and  upon  our  Northern  land  her 
wintriness  has  again  descended ;  as  I  sit  before  the 
fire,  gazing  into  the  embers,  my  thoughts  go  back 
over  the  dreadful  past. 

Of  what  is  England  thinking  to-night'?  I 
warrant  you  not  of  victory,  nor  cheers,  nor  wav- 
ing banners.  My  own  thoughts  are  a  sort  of 
dazed  wonder,  a  deep  humility;  round  about  a 
thousand  firesides  there  must  be  others  thinking 
the  same.  Germany,  the  wild  beast,  lies  at  last 
in  the  dust.  But  it  took  half  the  world  on  her 
back  to  bring  her  down ;  and  the  whole  world  came 
near  going  down  with  her.  Her  cause  was  a 
brutal  cause;  yet  the  Germans  fought  four  years 
wholeheartedly,  powerfully,  with  the  utmost 
bravery,  and  a  greater  military  skill  than  is  re- 
corded in  history.  Given  our  navy,  and  command 
of  the  seas,  given  our  resources  and  material,  what 
might  Germany  not  have  done1?  Could  the  Brit- 
ish, fighting  the  world  in  a  good  cause,  have 
achieved  all  the  Germans  achieved  in  a  bad  one*? 

My  thoughts  go  out  to  our  allies:  to  France, 
and  all  her  great  generals;  to  Belgium,  for  those 
ten  precious  days  of  August ;  to  the  peasant  army 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  265 

of  Servia;  to  Italy;  to  the  Russia  that  was;  with- 
out these  allies  where,  I  wonder,  had  the  world 
been  reeling  to-night?  Especially  my  thoughts 
go  out  to  America,  in  name  not  an  ally,  yet  the 
most  relevant  of  them  all.  Late  to  enter  the  war, 
she  came  in  with  tremendous  momentum.  Her 
money,  her  food,  her  war  materials,  her  vast  re- 
sources were  thrown  freely  on  the  scale — so  freely 
that  the  enemy  was  shaken;  and  once  her  great 
army  took  the  field  the  end  was  in  sight. 

Germany,  the  wild  beast,  lies  dead.  Upon  our 
Empire  fell  the  main  strain  in  those  years,  and 
upon  our  Old  England  the  brunt:  in  the  world's 
eyes  we  emerge  as  victors,  and  yet — I  cannot 
cheer.  The  England  of  our  dreams,  our  boasts, 
where  is  she1?  Those  seven  hundred  thousand 
of  our  dead  are  she;  but  in  the  fabric  of  the  liv- 
ing there  are  deep  rents  and  seams. 

Selfishness  has  taken  England.  Clever  and 
crafty  men  and  women — tens  of  thousands  of 
them — made  gain  out  of  the  war.  While  our  true 
men  fought,  and  our  true  women  worked,  these 
sleek  ones  span  their  web,  and  out  of  our  land's 
danger  made  their  money.  Their  example  has 
wrought  England  untold  harm.  Their  vulgar 
ostentation  will  continue  to  do  so. 

They  helped  to  bring  us  measurably  near  finan- 
cial collapse.  Today — England  owes  eight  thou- 
sand million  pounds,  owes  her  broken  soldiers, 


266  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

owes  her  orphans,  and  must  brace  herself  to  the 
heaviest  taxation  for  many  years  to  come. 

Even  in  the  old  days  the  idle  rich  of  England 
were  an  eyesore.  Not  those  who  made  the  money : 
they,  as  a  rule,  were  strong,  self-reliant,  incor- 
ruptible. But  those  who  inherited  it,  the  drones 
who  spent  it.  They  toiled  not,  neither  did  they 
spin.  Their  lives  were  passed  in  idleness — at  golf, 
shooting,  fishing,  fox-hunting,  or  in  dilettante 
travel:  they  were  parasites,  of  no  value  to  the 
country. 

These  people  had  lost  their  bearings,  had  run 
to  seed.  They  were  fine  material — wasted. 
When  the  war  came,  every  man  of  them  went  to 
fight,  every  woman  to  work.  The  men  officered 
the  new  armies.  Under  conditions  that  appalled, 
they  developed  character,  balance,  and  such  quali- 
ties of  leadership  that  the  troops  would  follow 
them  to  hell.  But,  alas!  with  the  coming  of 
peace,  they  return  to  their  loafing,  to  their  aim- 
less routine.  And  when  they  have  been  joined  by 
the  many  families  of  the  war  profiteers,  the  eye- 
sore of  England's  rich  will  be  greater  than  before. 

The  labouring  classes  shamed  England  too. 
There  were,  of  course,  many  of  these  who  fought 
bravely,  many  men  and  women  at  home  who 
worked,  and  worked  hard;  but  there  were  endless 
strikes  during  the  war,  eternal  bickerings  in  the 
face  of  our  deadly  peril.  We  had  to  bribe  labour 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  267 

often  to  carry  on.  If  the  rich  profiteers  were  con- 
temptible, so  were  these  many  labour  groups;  their 
callousness,  their  unjust  demands,  undermined  the 
whole  State. 

And  still  do.  Today,  after  victory,  after 
peace,  after  all  England  has  done  to  raise  the 
standard  of  living,  I  see  labour  more  disgruntled, 
more  capricious,  nursing  a  deeper  hate — in  a  word, 
more  selfish — than  ever  before.  This  is  the  deep- 
est rent  in  our  fabric.  There  are  many  labour 
men  in  England  today  drunk  with  power,  head- 
ing for  revolution.  England's  past  is  nought  to 
them.  That  she  is  Europe's  sheet  anchor  is 
nought.  That  their  fathers  and  brothers  died  of 
late  for  England  they  care  not  at  all.  Only  they 
think  of  themselves,  of  their  power,  and  of  pulling 
down  to  gratify  that  power;  they  are  traitors  to 
their  country,  and  most  detestable. 

Yet  I  am  not  dismayed.  The  world  may 
crash.  Half  Europe  may  fall.  But  England  will 
not  fall.  She  sways  today.  She  will  be  hard 
put  to  it  for  years  to  come.  But  she  will  get 
through.  Have  we  not  the  gifts  of  law  and  or- 
der? Have  we  not  that  unfailing  common  sense? 
Have  we  not  our  character?  Our  balance?  The 
nation  will  discipline  itself.  If  the  revolutionists 
behind  labour  are  out  for  trouble,  they  shall  find 
trouble.  But  if  the  solid  men  gain  control,  and 


£68  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

carry  labour  sanely  towards  power,  they  shall 
have  a  fair  and  sympathetic  deal. 

That  immense  debt  must  be  paid  off,  and  we 
shall  bravely  face  a  taxation  which  must  be  very 
heavy.  If  it  can  be  shown  that  a  levy  on  the 
well-to-do  is  of  real  good  to  the  State,  I,  for  one, 
shall  gladly  surrender  my  share.  We  have  but 
to  set  ourselves  to  this  task  in  earnest.  Behind 
us  is  our  world- wide  trade,  ever  growing;  our  vast 
shipping  to  carry  it ;  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  output 
of  gold,  to  finance  it;  and  thousands  of  the  world's 
astutest  and  solidest  traders  (and  I  do  not  forget 
the  Americans),  to  bring  it  to  fruition. 

Shaken  as  we  have  been,  we  yet  bring  great 
assets  out  of  the  war.  Our  King  is  trusted.  In 
our  years  of  trial  he  showed  himself  a  steadfast 
man,  doing  his  duty,  always  sharing  in  self-denial 
with  his  people.  In  these  days,  when  "Divine 
Right"  doth  no  longer  hedge  a  king,  the  common 
sense  trust  of  his  people  is  a  greater  thing  to  him 
by  far.  So  long  as  our  Empire  holds  together,  so 
long  must  we  have  a  visible  head,  a  link;  and  then 
he  is  the  Emperor  of  India.  Under  him,  the  war 
threw  up  Douglas  Haig — the  very  man  to  lead 
our  armies,  and  typifying  those  armies  down  to 
the  ground.  We  do  not  think  of  him  as  subtle  or 
brilliant;  but  the  English  character,  the  Scotch 
dourness,  the  balance^  the  seeing  it  through,  day 
by  day,  to  the  end,  were  there  all  the  time ! 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  S69 

Our  military  position,  too,  is  assured.  Five 
years  ago,  across  the  North  Sea,  lay  that  dreadful 
menace.  But  today  there  is  no  menace,  nor  any 
power  in  Europe  which  can  threaten.  For  the 
British  Army  one  need  never  fear  again,  nor  for 
the  martial  instincts  of  the  people. 

Once  the  British  Navy  was  our  first — our  last 
line  of  defence.  The  war  showed  that  Britain 
rules  the  waves  still ;  but  under  the  waves  she  was 
grasped  by  the  throat,  nearly  strangled  to  death. 
Our  position,  dwellers  on  an  island,  growing  but 
half  our  food,  is  gravely  compromised  by  the 
submarine.  There  is  no  real  answer  as  yet  to  its 
menace.  The  convoy  system,  and  the  depth 
charge,  do  but  palliate  the  menace;  a  Channel 
Tunnel  is  something  of  an  answer,  though,  and 
growing  more  food  at  home;  and  to  these  two 
things  the  country  must  set  itself.  The  battle- 
ship, threatened  under  water,  is  become  vulner- 
able from  the  air,  too,  and  here  again  our  future 
seems  charged  with  danger.  Yet  I  am  not  ap- 
palled. The  war  has  shewn  Britain,  and  the  Do- 
minions, taking  to  the  air,  and  there  displaying 
such  nerve,  such  mechanical  genius  as  to  approach 
mastery.  I  see  the  next  war  waged  fiercely,  per- 
haps predominately,  in  the  air,  and  I  urge  our 
people  to  prepare,  but  in  all  confidence,  for  this 
new  warfare  of  tomorrow. 

Our  Empire  stretches  world-wide — vaster  than 


270  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

ever.  Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  South 
Africa — the  older  dominions — full  fledged  now, 
prepare  to  leave  us :  not  in  sentiment,  not  in  race- 
instincts,  but  as  managing  utterly  their  own  af- 
fairs. India  receives  notable  allowance  of  self- 
government,  and  even  the  Egyptians — an  inferior 
people — receive  the  first  instalment.  Thus,  to  a 
great  extent,  England  is  at  a  parting  of  the  ways. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  the  Crown  Colo- 
nies, the  vast  Asian  and  vaster  African  Protec- 
torates, and  islands  all  over  the  world,  growing 
up,  getting  ready  to  take  their  place.  Their  col- 
oured peoples,  and  that  under  our  aegis,  keep 
gaining  in  education,  in  wealth,  in  national  con- 
sciousness ;  they  are  going  to  keep  our  administra- 
tors at  full  pressure  for  generations  to  come. 

And  there  are  all  the  territories  fallen  to  us 
after  the  war:  there  is  Mesapotomia,  where  irri- 
gation will  bring  about  utmost  fertility;  Palestine, 
and  the  leadership  of  the  Jews;  suzerainty  over 
Arabia;  the  almost  suzerainty  over  Persia — in- 
deed, the  war  forces  upon  us,  and  that  without  our 
seeking  it,  the  trusteeship  of  the  Near,  the  Mid- 
dle, and  much  of  the  Far  East — the  East  of  our 
affinity.  The  vista  opened  up  is  almost  stagger- 
ing. If  Britain  to  herself  remains  but  true,  her 
career,  so  far  from  ending,  is  only  about  to  begin ! 

Finally,  most  vital,  most  precious  of  all,  are 
those  two  millions.  I  have  been  in  every  land, 


MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  271 

and  I  tell  you  again  that  these,  this  backbone  of 
the  British  race,  are  humanity's  best  asset.  With 
all  their  faults,  with  all  their  limitations,  you  may 
place  your  trust  in  them.  They  have  pulled  Eng- 
land through  in  the  old  days.  With  their  backs 
to  the  wall,  they  have  pulled  her  through  again — 
doggedly,  not  gloriously  though;  and  if  the  mass, 
the  great  herd,  with  the  bit  in  their  teeth,  do  not 
run  violently  down  a  steep  place  into  the  sea, 
they  will  pull  England  through  again,  and  save 
Europe,  in  the  critical  years  which  are  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE" 

Do  you  remember  that  blue  dome,  the  tomb 
of  the  Agha's  father  at  Teheran,  that  flashed  in 
the  sun,  and  grew  dull  again,  and  changed  colour 
with  every  cloud  in  the  sky?  That  is  like  our 
world — the  Shadow-Show;  joy  and  misery,  good 
and  evil,  are  crossing  our  sky  from  birth  to  death, 
and  our  moods  reflect  them  as  those  old  Persian 
tiles  reflected  the  heavens.  There  are  days  when 
I  know  myself  a  god,  when  all  things  bend  to  my 
will.  And  there  come  times,  as  surely,  when  I 
writhe  in  my  depression,  and  the  waves  close  over 
my  head.  Who  or  what  am  I?  for  I  myself  do 
not  know.  But  a  moment  agone  I  was  a  patriot, 
a  thinker  for  England ;  yet  at  this  moment,  all  the 
evil  and  the  misery  of  the  world  sweep  before  me, 
and  I  know  myself,  in  a  wider  field,  a  grappler 
with  disillusion. 

Humanity  is  shrieking  of  its  progress,  and  I  do 
not  see  it.  Change  in  material  things  I  see — 
profound  change;  but  of  ethical  advance,  that 
blending  of  human  nature  with  the  Divine  Es- 
sence that  must  lie  behind  things,  there  seems  no 
vestige. 

273 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   273 

Can  you  see  progress*?  Is  machinery,  with  its 
great  steamers,  swift  trains,  submarines,  and  air- 
ships that  are  to  drop  dynamite  progress?  Is 
rapid  travel  progress,  or  greater  commercial  turn- 
over, or  the  Stock  Exchange,  or  party  politics? 
Are  our  law  courts  progress,  where  rich  litigants 
wear  poor  ones  to  death;  or  our  newspapers, 
which,  mad  for  a  sensation,  would  plunge  the  peor 
pies  into  war? 

We  are  envolving.  Our  brains  are  become  sub- 
tle, our  organism  complex,  our  nerves  raise  us 
to  heights,  depress  us  to  depths,  the  earlier  men 
never  knew.  Yet  we  have  left  the  vital  problems 
unsolved.  Selfishness,  jealousy,  and  hate  have 
come  through  unscathed,  as  have  love,  effort,  and 
courage ;  human  nature  stands  just  where  the  Crea- 
tor left  it. 

Let  us  open  the  window  of  humanity  and  take 
stock  of  our  so-called  "progress."  Strange,  angry 
cries  reach  us  from  all  directions.  These  are  not 
the  cries  of  idealists,  who  see  the  absolute  stand- 
ards set  at  naught,  but  of  partizans,  fighting  man 
against  man,  creed  against  creed,  nation  against 
nation.  The  cries  of  humanity  are  only  factional 
cries;  the  warning  about  those  two  who  went  up 
into  the  temple  to  pray  is  forgotten,  and  intoler- 
ance is  roaring  at  large. 

Intolerance,  in  nations  as  in  men,  is  a  symptom ; 
the  disease  is  ignorance — crystallization  of  mind, 


274  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

to  be  feared  by  us  as  our  fathers  feared  the  devil. 
In  this  twentieth  century,  as  ever,  the  nations  are 
vain-glorious  and  self-righteous.  Majorities  are 
patriotic,  rarely  critical,  yet  brains,  energy,  brav- 
ery, altruism — the  things  we  value — are  wide- 
spread as  the  world;  good  and  bad  are  not  to  be 
localized. 

Do  you  hear  a  piercing  cry  rising  momentarily 
above  the  rest?  That  is  the  English  denouncing 
the  Congo,  who  shout,  "Down  with  Red  Rubber 
and  the  Slave  Gang!"  The  charge  is  true— ex- 
aggerated, yet  in  essence  true.  Slavery  has  ex- 
isted there,  and  torture,  and  Belgium  is  stained. 
Yet  who  are  we  to  cry  out?  Are  there  not  in 
London,  at  our  own  door,  many  beings  as  miser- 
able and  degraded  as  any  in  the  Congo*?  Read, 
too,  as  I  did  some  years  ago,  an  official  report  on 
the  natives  of  West  Australia  and  their  treatment. 
It  was  horrible.  It  was  worse  than  slavery. 

And  what  of  our  opium  trade1?  What  of  the 
Indian  Government,  the  greatest  opium  merchant 
in  the  world,  who  for  many  years  made  millions 
of  profit  out  of  China,  and  only  of  late  relin- 
quished this  revenue? 

"Oh,"  reply  the  English,  "if  India  hadn't  sold 
opium  to  China,  some  one  else  would.  Better  we 
than  they." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so!"  murmured  astute  old 
Leopold  of  Belgium.  "Our  case  is  a  similar  one. 


-     "THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   275 

If  we  hadn't  forced  the  natives  to  work,  and  to 
collect  rubber,  their  own  chiefs  would  do  so.  Bet- 
ter we  than  they." 

Or  turn  to  America.  The  Yankees  fix  their 
eagle  eye  on  the  wrongs  of  Finland  or  Armenia. 
A  mass  meeting  of  denouncement  is  called  in  Bos- 
ton, where,  as  it  closes,  ten  thousand  perspiring 
ratepayers  stand  and  sing: — 

"My    country,    'tis    of   thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty." 

And  out  in  the  street  newsboys  are  calling.  There 
has  been  a  massacre  of  blacks  in  Georgia  by  the 
mob.  A  white  woman  has  been  outraged  by  a 
negro;  to  avenge  her,  some  twenty  innocent  and 
respectable  men  have  been  shot  and  burned  at  the 
stake. 

"Home  was  never  like  this!"  think  the  Finns. 

There  are  worse  things,  though,  than  intoler- 
ance, darker  shadows  that  cross  our  sky;  disease 
is  one,  and  grinding  poverty,  and  the  drink  traffic, 
and  the  unfit,  and  the  misery  that  stalks  at  noon- 
day. 

What  is  our  vaunted  civilisation?  For  the 
rich,  for  the  well-to-do,  it  is  a  soft  cushion,  a  bed 
of  feathers;  but  they  must  not  look  beneath,  for 
it  rests,  ultimately,  on  an  army  of  the  very  poor. 
The  poor  are  always  and  fearfully  with  us,  and 
as  our  wealth  increases  so  does  their  degradation. 
Actual  hunger  they  often  know,  actual  want; 


276  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

while  wearing  anxiety,  bad  food,  insufficient 
warmth  and  sleep  and  leisure  and  happiness  is 
their  lot  from  beginning  to  end. 

Poverty  belongs  to  the  scheme  of  things.  You 
may  pay  robust  labour  all  it  demands,  and  believe 
the  poor  abolished,  but  there  are  millions  of  the 
weak,  the  inefficient,  the  ill-equipped  for  life, 
whom  you  never  reach.  And  the  more  wealth 
and  luxury  at  the  top,  the  keener,  the  more  poig- 
nant poverty  at  the  bottom.  The  tnisery  of 
European  cities  we  know;  and  there  are  tenement 
streets  in  New  York  or  Chicago,  the  land  of 
promise,  which  may  well  give  the  optimist  pause. 

These  people  are  slaves.  We  cannot  explain 
the  ugly  word  away.  They  dare  not  have  wills 
of  their  own,  wants  of  their  own.  Such  beings 
have  no  reserve  fund,  nor  can  they  build  one  up. 
They  live  from  hand  to  mouth.  They  have  rarely 
twenty-four  hours'  start  from  hunger;  if  they  fall, 
they  fall  for  ever,  and  the  ranks  close  in. 

We  mean  well,  no  doubt;  but  that  inexorable 
thing,  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  is  the  real 
factor.  Do  you  hear  a  sort  of  deep  rumbling*? 
It  is  the  new  generation  coming  along.  There 
are  millions  of  them !  Millions  more  slaves — ten, 
for  one  man's  place — and  the  clergy  are  egging 
the  people  to  breed ! 

Hurrah  for  a  denser  population !  See  how  the 
capitalists  and  the  great  employers  leer,  washing 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   277 

their  hands  with  invisible  soap !  Labour  is  cheap 
today ! 

Forget,  a  moment,  the  poor  and  degraded,  and 
take  note  of  this  dreadful  army  who  approach. 
These  are  the  mentally  and  bodily  unfit,  on  their 
way  to  get  married.  They  go  with  the  good 
wishes  of  society  and  the  Church.  With  light 
hearts  they  will  beget  children,  bestowing  on 
them  physical  and  mental  heritages  from  which 
there  is  no  escape.  But  you  must  not  interfere, 
we  allow  these  things ;  those  of  us  who  know  the 
facts  are  too  cowardly  to  protest.  Some  of  these 
men  are  partis,  and  your  British  mother  is  a 
dragon  when  the  parti  appears.  Who  said 
"phthisis"?  Heaven  help  such  officious  wight! 

Let  us  close  the  window  again.  The  tale  of 
evil  and  misery  and  futility  is  but  half  told,  yet 
told  enough. 

All  religions  die  in  time.  Their  early,  virile 
conceptions  become  lost  in  a  maze  of  mysticism, 
ritual,  and  dogma.  Our  religion  is  dying  this 
way.  She  is  but  a  shell  now;  and  vestments  and 
wafers  and  oriented  genuflections  and  intonings 
and  Athanasian  creeds  and  burning  candles  are 
what  she  offers  as  the  Waters  of  Life. 

The  Church  has  lost  its  hold.  By  refusing  to 
come  in  line  with  modern  thought,  it  alienates 
those  who  think.  What  signifies  an  audience  of 
old  women  or  flighty  girls,  when  the  brainy  men 


278  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

of  the  community  are  in  their  libraries  or  out  on 
the  links? 

The  man  who  gives  the  Churches  the  go-by  is 
not  a  bad  man.  He  is,  more  often  than  not,  the 
thinking  man;  and  when  he  thinks  what  religion 
was  meant  to  be,  and  what  it  has  become,  he 
laughs  aloud.  What  are  dogmas  to  him?  Will 
they  bring  peace  to  Ireland?  Will  they  breed 
sympathy  between  labour  and  capital?  The 
"two-and-seventy  jarring  sects,"  with  their  va- 
garies, their  narrowness,  cause  him  amusement 
rather  than  otherwise. 

Our  thinker  is  a  traveller,  and  he  notes — in 
China,  in  Zululand,  in  Central  Africa,  in  a  hun- 
dred foreign  parts — a  great  dissipation  of  money 
and  energy  in  missionary  effort.  Some  of  it  seems 
to  be  good,  some  bad,  and  the  greater  part  use- 
less. The  heathen,  who  have  neither  our  wants 
nor  our  complex  organisms,  are,  on  the  whole, 
happy  and  contented.  If  one  thing  in  the  world 
is  certain,  it  is  that  the  heathen  are  happier  than 
our  own  submerged,  whose  need  for  uplifting  is 
in  all  senses  greater. 

Our  thinking  man  is  kindly  and  tolerant; 
when  he  hears  of  Christian  Churches  denying  the 
rites  of  burial  to  some  poor  suicide,  venting  their 
rancour  on  him,  dead,  on  his  family,  living,  it 
makes  his  blood  boil.  Who  are  we  to  assail  these 
poor  tortured  creatures?  What  had  their  final 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   279 

/ 

agonies  to  do  with  us?  "Judge  not,  that  ye  be 
not  judged,"  my  lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury! 

One  hundred  and  seventy-one  Bishops  of  the 
Anglican  Church  assemble  at  Lambeth,  and  they 
make  decision,  by  87  votes  to  84,  to  deny  the 
blessing  of  the  Church  to  the  innocent  party  in 
a  divorce  who  may  marry  again.  Pshaw!  You 
old  men  are  no  doubt  well-meaning,  but  you  don't 
know.  You  must  adapt  yourselves  to  modern  in- 
tellect, or  it  will  presently  pass  over  you  like  a 
steam-roller.  Moreover,  such  a  union  is  legal  to 
the  State,  and  yours  is  a  State  Church.  Go  care- 
fully, if  you  would  escape  disestablishment! 
There  are  social  dignities  and  fat  endowments 
some  of  you  would  ill  surrender. 

Religion,  as  we  have  evolved  it,  is  become  a 
flabby  thing.  It  is  a  creed  for  the  well-to-do,  a 
creed  of  the  tall  hat,  whose  votaries  dare  not  peer 
below  the  surface  of  things.  We  are  concerned 
with  the  supernatural,  with  miracles,  with  three 
Gods  who  are  one  God;  scornful  of  science,  we 
treat  sin  and  misery  as  casual  factors,  removable 
by  prayer,  and  ignore  the  Reign  of  Law  through 
which  we  move  from  birth  to  death. 

Does  our  religion  look  into  the  causes  of  things? 
No!  It  ignores  scientific  inquiry.  Empiric,  cred- 
ulous, it  thinks  to  cure  by  indiscriminate  charity, 
and  floods  the  country  with  organisations  which 
pauperise  the  masses,  breed  parasites,  and  ruin 


280  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

the  character  of  the  lower  classes  wholesale. 
Christianity  can  give  men  money.  My  religion 
would  teach  men  to  earn  it. 

And  our  ethics  are  become  flabby.  We  build 
free  sanatoria,  we  glory  in  saving  the  lives  of  con- 
sumptives and  weaklings  generally.  Well  and 
good.  Then  we  allow  them  to  breed !  Under  the 
aegis  of  the  Churches  an  orgy  of  generation  goes 
on.  The  unfit  breed,  and  the  mentally  weak,  and 
the  degenerates,  and  the  submerged,  whose  im- 
mense families  overflow  into  State  homes  or  work- 
houses. Owing  to  our  flabby  brand  of  religion, 
which  welcomes  the  halt  and  the  maimed  and  the 
half-witted,  we  are  vitiating  the  strain  to  the  last 
degree;  we  are  blocking  the  likeliest  of  all  paths 
of  human  progress. 

If  this  be  the  way  of  constructive  Christianity7, 
I  declare  for  the  other  way.  I  would  take  in  hand 
paupers,  drunkards,  loafers,  criminals;  I  would 
spend  on  them — on  our  own  problems — the  mon- 
eys now  wasted  on  the  happy  heathen,  and  I 
would  start  scientific  reform.  Some  of  these 
would  be  reformed;  quite  as  many  would  be  un- 
reformable,  and  these  latter,  whom  you  now  fill 
with  bread  and  soup  and  allow  to  perpetuate  the 
race,  I  would  sterilise,  or  keep  rigidly  apart.  If 
they  worked,  they  should  live;  but  the  lunatics, 
the  degenerates,  without  qualm  on  my  part,  would 
go  to  a  painless  death. 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   281 

Now  let  me  ponder. 

Reason  sits  in  her  seat  today,  and  I  know 
things  are  not  what  they  seem.  Do  you  think 
that  in  a  thousand  guesses  theologian  or  philos- 
opher has  reached  the  heart  of  things'?  No — not 
in  a  myriad !  Our  meaning,  in  time  and  space,  is 
utterly  vague.  Could  we  but  gaze  on  the  white 
light  of  reality,  all  our  codes  must  shrivel  up, 
Christian  and  agnostic  alike  stand  aghast. 

This  is  the  Shadow-Show.  It  is  no  figure  of 
speech.  We  men  and  women,  who  come  we  know 
riot  whence,  go  we  know  not  whither,  who  move 
through  a  world  we  do  not  comprehend,  in  the 
grip  of  inexorable  laws  we  cannot  explain,  are 
the  Shadows  of  all  time. 

The  "Reign  of  Law"  holds  us  as  in  a  vice. 
Nature,  who  can  be  kind,  as  she  can  be  infinitely 
cruel,  makes  her  sport  of  us.  Of  her  ultimate  de- 
cision there  is  no  faintest  hint. 

The  world  around  us,  Nature  materialised,  is 
a  beautiful  world ;  I,  of  all  men,  know  that.  But 
under  her  beauty,  what  awful  forces  lurk,  what 
inexorable  laws! 

The  Law  of  Life,  be  it  for  man,  animal,  or 
plant,  is  the  same — struggle.  Eat  or  be  eaten. 
Overthrow  or  be  overthrown.  Stand  firm  or  be 
swept  aside.  The  strong  and  the  adaptable  sur- 
vive, as  they  were  meant;  they  are  effective  and 
joyous,  finding  life,  on  the  whole,  a  pleasant 


282  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

thing.  The  weak  and  the  unfit  fail  and  die,  as 
they  were  meant;  they  are  ineffective,  altogether 
futile,  and  for  them  life  is  ugly  and  wretched. 

There  is  Cause  and  Effect — a  thing  so  inexor- 
able, and  so  relentless,  as  to  rivet  our  keenest 
faculties. 

Cause  and  Effect  is  the  manifestation.  Behind 
it  lies  the  law,  and  the  law  I  take  to  be  the  "inter- 
relation"— the  oneness — of  all  things. 

We  have  seen,  in  these  very  pages,  how  a  stop- 
page of  tram-cars  in  Delhi,  some  years  ago,  was 
a  direct  result  of  the  marriage  of  Mahomet's 
daughter  with  Ali,  in  the  seventh  century.  We 
have  seen  that  the  discovery  of  silver  at  Potosi, 
in  1545,  led  to  Roosevelt  becoming  President  of 
the  United  States  in  1901;  the  two  events  occur 
356  years  apart,  yet  their  inter-relation  is  un- 
doubted. 

Now  consider  an  example,  supposititious  yet 
not  improbable,  which  we  will  ourselves  con- 
struct. 

A  London  paper  receives  important  news,  and 
issues  a  special  edition.  The  sub-editor,  pleased 
with  the  look  of  the  "extra,"  and  with  the  celerity 
displayed,  takes  a  sovereign  from  his  pocket,  and 
gives  it  to  the  compositor  mainly  concerned.  This 
man,  with  a  large  family,  living  on  the  border-line 
of  debt,  has  an  ailing  child,  and  uses  the  windfall 
to  take  his  child  to  a  specialist.  The  specialist, 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   283 

examining,  sees  an  unusual  development  of  dis- 
ease, and  following  this  up,  makes  a  minor  dis- 
covery in  pathology.  He  writes  an  article  on  this 
which  is  published  in  a  medical  journal.  Another 
doctor  buys  a  copy  of  this  journal,  and  accident- 
ally leaves  it,  opened  at  the  article  in  question,  on 
a  table  in  a  tea-shop.  A  woman  next  occupies  his 
seat;  she  sees  the  open  journal,  and  her  eyes  note 
the  words,  "We  must  now  proceed  to  diag- 
nose. .  .  ."  The  syllable  "nose"  becomes  con- 
notative,  and  she  proceeds  to  use  her  handker- 
chief with  some  violence.  Returning  it  to  her 
reticule,  she  notes  with  satisfaction  the  initials 
embroidered  in  the  corner,  and  starts  off  to  order 
a  dozen  more  at  Marshall  and  Snelgrove's. 

We  will  not  accompany  her  up  Bond  Street, 
nor  try  to  follow  up  the  effects  of  the  composi- 
tor's gratitude,  the  child's  treatment,  the  special- 
ist's future,  the  thousands  to  be  benefited  by  his 
discovery,  and  the  changes  wrought  in  their  for- 
tunes; but  we  will  note  this:  that  just  as  vibra- 
tions, from  a  stone  cast  into  a  pond,  reach  every 
drop  of  water  in  that  pond  so,  sooner  or  later, 
every  man  and  woman  in  the  world,  and  most 
things  living  and  dead,  would  be,  some  in  greater, 
some  in  lesser  degree,  brought  into  touch  through 
that  act  of  the  editor,  that  giving  of  a  small  piece 
of  yellow  metaL  I  need  not  further  elaborate. 
The  inter-relation  of  all  things,  mental  and  ma- 


*84  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

terial,  the  "oneness"  of  the  Universe,  is  absolute, 
and  our  connection  with  the  great  mosaic  utterly 
close,  utterly  inextricable;  a  wine  merchant  may 
sneeze  and  the  destinies  of  Denmark  be  affected, 
a  billiard  professional  travel  second-class  and  the 
price  of  tea  harden  perceptibly. 

There  must  be  a  meaning  of  Cause  and  Effect, 
and  of  this  inter-relation  of  things.  I  believe  it 
to  be  that  all  things  are  the  manifestations  of 
some  ONE  THING — some  all-embracing  medium — 
receiving  into  itself,  and  giving  out  again,  the 
myriad  permutations  of  matter  and  mind,  of  be- 
ing and  not-being,  that  make  up  the  universe. 

Let  us  take  this  problem,  this  search  for  the 
ONE  THING,  to  the  physicists.  These  men  have 
been  probing  very  deeply  into  the  heart  of 
things;  they  are  going  to  be — they  now  are — 
nearer  to  the  Infinite  than  all  the  mystics,  all  the 
metaphysicians  who  ever  lived. 

"You  in  search  of  ONE  THING*?"  cry  the  physi- 
cists. "So  are  we.  From  the  time  Mendeleeff 
rounded  off  the  Periodic  Law,  we  have  known  that 
all  elements,  all  matter,  must  be  variations  of 
some  underlying  ONE  THING.  Furthermore,  the 
discoveries  of  radio-active  substances,  and  their 
extraordinary  metamorphoses,  have  set  us  hot  on 
the  scent."  (Here  follows  a  physical  dissertation 
on  atoms,  and  on  the  electron — one  thousand 
times  smaller  again.) 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   285 

We  need  not  follow  the  atomic  discoveries ;  but 
we  must  listen  to  the  words  of  a  President  of  the 
British  Association,  to  the  words  of  the  man  with 
the  most  penetrative  brain  in  England  today: 
".  .  .  for  the  most  natural  view  to  take,  as  a 
provisional  hypothesis,  is  that  matter  is  just  a  col- 
lection of  positive  and  negative  units  of  elec- 
tricity." 

These  units  are  the  electrons — mere  whiffs  of 
energy;  yet  these  whiffs  of  energy  seem  to  be 
not  only  the  basis  of  the  universe,  but  the  universe 
itself.  They  are  energy,  yet  their  inconceivable 
rapidity  of  movement  causes  them  to  assume  sub- 
stance. Matter  would  thus  seem  to  be  born  out 
of  energy;  and  a  bunch  of  grapes,  a  wardrobe,  a 
man,  a  star,  are  merely  so  many  impalpable  elec- 
trons, grouped  in  varying  atomic  structures,  and 
revolving  inside  their  atoms  with  a  force  truly 
appalling. 

If  the  physicists  are  right,  matter  is  merely 
energy  in  violent  movement;  ENERGY  looms  up 
as  the  ultimate  basis  of  the  universe,  the  ONE 
THING,  and  our  Shadow-Show  becomes  a  reality! 

I,  too,  will  set  a  provisional  hypothesis  before 
you: — 

"If  matter  is  energy,  brain  is,  and  all  that 
brain  brings  into  being;  it  follows  that  thought 
and  will  are  energy,  and  many,  if  not  all,  forms 


286  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

of  good  and  evil,  happiness  and  misery.  And  be- 
ing energy,  they  are  indestructible. 

"Inherent  in  this  subtle  energy  which  may 
underlie  all  things,  as  it  is  inherent  in  electricity, 
must  be  'polarity.'  The  forces  we  call  good  and 
evil,  happiness  and  misery,  and  all  the  positive 
and  negative  forces  of  life,  are  polarized  forms 
of  energy.  They  are  balancing  factors  in  the 
structure  of  things." 

I  feel  that  "polarity"  or  "balance"  may  be  the 
master-key  to  the  universe.  A  universe  of  energy, 
with  a  guiding  brain  in  control,  would  establish 
itself  along  just  such  lines.  The  theory  of  "bal- 
ance," looked  into  deeply,  shows  so  world-wide  a 
tendency  as  to  suggest  a  law.  Balance  permeates 
all  things;  there  seems  to  be  no  positive  without 
a  negative,  no  negative  without  a  positive.  We 
may  liken  the  universe  to  a  mass  of  grains  of 
sand,  so  tightly  packed  that  a  man's  finger  pressed 
into  one  part  of  the  mass  will  cause  a  bulging, 
exactly  equal  to  the  depression,  at  some  other  part. 
In  other  words,  for  each  movement,  each  happen- 
ing, each  thought  in  the  universe,  there  is  a  bal- 
ancing condition  set  up.  We  may  not  see  it,  we 
may  not  realise  it;  but  in  some  form,  mental  or 
material,  palpable  or  impalpable,  it  is  inexorably 
there. 

If  energy  forms  the  fabric  of  the  universe,  and 
balance  should  be  its  law,  where  do  we  stand? 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   287 

We  see  now  that  evil  and  misery,  and  all  the 
negative  forces,  may  be  part  of  the  fabric  itself, 
and  indestructible,  but  so,  too,  are  good,  and  hap- 
piness, and  all  the  positive  forces;  the  position 
might  be  worse.  It  is  because  there  is  evil  that 
there  can  be  its  balancer — good ;  it  is  because  there 
is  poverty  that  there  can  be  those  who  alleviate ;  it 
is  because  there  is  disease  that  there  can  be  those 
who  heal;  the  policeman  gains  promotion  at  the 
expense  of  the  criminal,  and  the  barrister  wealth 
because  men  still  hate;  it  takes,  literally,  all  sorts 
to  make  a  world. 

In  a  "balanced"  universe,  the  evil  side  of 
things  is  a  necessary  condition.  You  think  not"? 
Well,  we  shall  test  it,  on  conventional  religious 
lines.  A  famous  divine,  before  a  vast  congrega- 
tion, prays  to  the  Almighty  to  abolish  disease  from 
the  world,  and  the  Almighty  hears,  and  answers. 
Disease  ceases.  But  at  the  same  time  cease,  from 
disuse,  medicine,  surgery,  research  work,  nursing, 
hygiene,  antiseptics,  drainage,  and  such  personal 
qualities  as  cleanliness,  self-denial,  caution,  and 
fortitude — that  is  to  say,  many  of  the  noblest 
paths  of  endeavour,  many  of  the  finest  qualities 
known  to  man.  Disease  has  gone ;  but  so  have  its 
balancing  factors.  The  same  could  be  demon- 
strated with  the  other  negative  forces ;  so  that  the 
"calling-in"  of  all  sin,  all  misery,  by  the  Al- 
mighty, would  mean  the  simultaneous  disappear- 


288  THE  SHADOW-SHOW 

ance  of  all  active  good  and  happiness.  There 
would  be  general  running  down  of  the  fabric  to  a 
neutral  condition;  humanity  would  exist  on  a  far 
lower  level  than  before. 

I  have  verged  towards  that  hateful  thing — 
metaphysics;  that  way  lies  mental  sterility.  But 
this  I  feel :  the  things  we  have  dealt  with — Inter- 
relation, Polarity,  Balance — are  not  casual  fac- 
tors ;  they  fit,  could  we  but  find  the  key,  into  some 
vast  generalization,  with  an  appalling  simplicity. 

And  sin  and  misery — they  are  not  casual  fac- 
tors. If  "balance"  be  the  key,  they  have  a  tre- 
mendous purpose  of  their  own,  they  are  subject 
to  inexorable  law,  and  not  tears,  fastings,  nor  the 
exorcisms  of  white-robed  clergy,  are  going  to  turn 
them  one  hair's-breadth  aside. 

Beyond  the  veil  there  is  Oneness — Oneness  that 
may  be  white,  whizzing  Energy;  and  the  subtle 
brain  of  it,  the  Permeating  Essence,  is  God.  This 
is  a  true  God;  no  jealous,  capricious  deity,  fash- 
ioned by  the  minds,  swayed  by  the  conflicting 
prayers  of  little  men,  but  a  Force  of  immeasur- 
able power  and  finality.  This  is  a  God  to  wor- 
ship! 

And  for  you,  for  me,  what  lies  beyond?  Does 
our  caravan  start  for  the  "Dawn  of  Nothing,'* 
or  is  there,  far  away  over  the  desert,  a  fair  oasis? 
What  of  those  who  have  gone  ahead?  What  of 
that  dead  multitude  who  sleep  on  the  uplands 


"THROUGH  THE  SEVENTH  GATE"   289 

of  Samarkand?  As  I  stood  beside  them  the  sun 
went  down,  and  it  was  night,  yet  was  the  night 
calm  and  peaceful.  What  of  them? 

In  Shadowland  there  is  vast  interrogation.  The 
figures  are  dancing  on  the  curtain,  and  there  is 
furious  movement  as  of  yore. 

But  what  do  we  shadows  know? 

"We   are  such  stuff   as  dreams   are   made   on, 
And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 


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